THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


EVERED 


EVERED 


BY 


BEN  AMES  WILLIAMS 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PBINTED  IN  THE  UNITED 
STATES  OF  AMERICA 


EVERED 


THERE  is  romance  in  the  very  look  of  the 
land  of  which  I  write.  Beauty  beyond 
belief,  of  a  sort  to  make  your  breath 
come  more  quickly;  and  drama — comedy  or 
tragedy  according  to  the  eye  and  the  mood  of 
the  seer.  Loneliness  and  comradeship,  peace 
and  conflict,  friendship  and  enmity,  gayety  and 
somberness,  laughter  and  tears.  The  bold 
hills,  little  cousins  to  the  mountains,  crowd  close 
round  each  village;  the  clear  brooks  thread 
wood  and  meadow ;  the  birches  and  scrub  hard 
wood  are  taking  back  the  abandoned  farms. 
When  the  sun  drops  low  in  the  west  there  is 
a  strange  and  moving  purple  tinge  upon  the 
slopes;  and  the  shadows  are  as  blue  as  blue 
can  be.  When  the  sun  is  high  there  is  a  green 
ery  about  this  northern  land  which  is  almost 
tropical  in  its  richness  and  variety. 

The  little  villages  lie  for  the  most  part  in 
l 


fi.tt 


2  EVERED 

sheltered  valley  spots.  Not  all  of  them.  Lib 
erty,  for  example,  climbs  up  along  a  steep  hill 
road  on  your  way  to  St.  George 's  Pond,  or  over 
the  Sheepscot  Eidge,  for  trout.  No  spot  love 
lier  anywhere.  But  you  will  come  upon  other 
little  house  clusters,  a  white  church  steeple  top 
ping  every  one,  at  unsuspected  crossroads,  with 
some  meadowland  round  and  about,  and  a 
brook  running  through  the  village  itself,  and 
perhaps  a  mill  sprawled  busily  across  the  brook. 
It  is  natural  that  the  villages  should  thus  seek 
shelter;  for  when  the  winter  snows  come  down 
this  is  a  harsh  land,  and  bitter  cold.  So  is  it 
all  the  more  strange  that  the  outlying  farms 
are  so  often  set  high  upon  the  hills,  bare  to  the 
bleak  gales.  And  the  roads,  too,  like  to  seek 
and  keep  the  heights.  From  Fraternity  itself, 
for  example,  there  is  a  ten-mile  ridge  southwest 
to  Union,  and  a  road  along  the  whole  length  of 
the  ridge 's  crest,  from  which  you  may  look  for 
miles  on  either  side. 

This  is  not  a  land  of  bold  emprises;  neither 
is  it  one  of  those  localities  which  are  said  to  be 
happy  because  they  have  no  history.  There  is 
history  in  the  very  names  of  the  villages  here 
abouts.  Liberty,  and  Union,  and  Freedom; 
Equality,  and  Fraternity.  And  men  will  tell 


EVERED  3 

you  how  their  fathers '  fathers  came  here  in  the 
train  of  General  Knox,  when  that  warrior,  for 
Kevolutionary  services  rendered,  was  given 
title  to  all  the  countryside;  and  how  he  sub- 
granted  to  his  followers ;  and  how  they  cleared 
farms,  and  tilled  the  soil,  and  lumbered  out 
the  forests,  and  exterminated  deer  and  moose 
and  bear.  Seventy  years  ago,  they  will  tell 
you,  there  was  no  big  game  hereabouts;  but 
since  then  many  farms,  deserted,  have  been 
overrun  by  the  forests;  and  the  bear  are  com 
ing  back,  and  there  are  deer  tracks  along  every 
stream,  and  moose  in  the  swamps,  and  wildcats 
scream  in  the  night.  Twenty  or  thirty  or  forty 
miles  to  the  north  the  big  woods  of  Maine  be 
gin  ;  so  that  this  land  is  an  outpost  of  the  wil 
derness,  thrust  southward  among  the  closer 
dwellings  of  man. 

The  people  of  these  towns  are  of  ancient 
stock.  The  grandfathers  of  many  of  them  came 
in  with  General  Knox ;  most  of  them  have  been 
here  for  fifty  years  or  more,  they  or  their  for 
bears.  A  few  Frenchmen  have  drifted  down 
from  Quebec ;  a  few  Scotch  arid  Irish  have  come 
in  here  as  they  come  everywhere.  Half  a  dozen 
British  seamen  escaped,  once  upon  a  time,  from 
a  man-of-war  in  Penobscot  Bay,  and  fled  inland, 


4  EVERED 

and  were  hidden  away  until  their  ship  was  gone. 
Whereupon  they  married  and  became  part  and 
parcel  of  the  land,  and  their  stock  survives.  By 
the  mere  reading  of  the  names  of  these  folk 
upon  the  B.  F.  D.  boxes  at  their  doors  you  may 
know  their  antecedents.  Bubier  and  Saladine, 
Varney  and  Motley,  McCorrison  and  MacLure, 
Thomas  and  Davis,  Sohier  and  Brine — a  five- 
breed  blend  of  French  and  English,  Scotch  and 
"Welsh  and  Irish;  in  short,  as  clear  a  strain  of 
good  Yankee  blood  as  you  are  like  to  come 
upon. 

Sturdy  folk,  and  hardy  workers.  You  will 
find  few  idlers ;  and  by  the  same  token  you  will 
find  few  slavish  toilers,  lacking  soul  to  whip  a 
trout  brook  now  and  then  or  shoot  a  woodcock 
or  a  deer.  Most  men  hereabouts  would  rather 
catch  a  trout  than  plant  a  potato;  most  men 
would  rather  shoot  a  partridge  than  cut  a  cord 
.of  wood.  And  they  act  upon  their  inclinations 
in  these  matters.  The  result  is  that  the  farms 
are  perhaps  a  thought  neglected;  and  no  one 
is  very  rich  in  worldly  goods ;  and  a  man  who 
inherits  a  thousand  dollars  has  come  into 
money.  Yet  have  they  all  that  any  man  wisely 
may  desire ;  for  they  have  food  and  drink  and 
shelter,  and  good  comradeship,  and  the  woods 


EVERED  S 

to  take  their  sport  in,  and  what  books  they 
choose  to  read,  and  time  for  solid  thinking, 
and  beauty  ever  before  their  eyes.  Whether 
you  envy  or  scorn  them  is  in  some  measure  an 
acid  test  of  your  own  soul.  Best  hesitate  before 
deciding. 

Gregarious  folk,  these,  like  most  people  who 
dwell  much  alone.  So  there  are  grange  halls 
here  and  there;  and  the  churches  are  white- 
painted  and  in  good  repair ;  and  now  and  then 
along  the  roads  you  will  come  to  a  picnic  grove 
or  a  dancing  pavilion,  set  far  from  any  town. 
Save  in  haymaking  time  the  men  work  solitary 
in  the  fields;  but  in  the  evening,  when  cows 
have  been  milked  and  pigs  fed  and  wood  pre 
pared  against  the  morning,  they  take  their  lan 
terns  and  tramp  or  drive  half  a  mile  or  twice 
as  far,  and  drop  in  at  Will  BisselPs  store  for 
the  mail  and  for  an  hour  round  Will's  stove. 

You  will  hear  tales  there,  tales  worth  the 
hearing,  and  on  the  whole  surprisingly  true. 
There  is  some  talk  of  the  price  of  hay  or  of 
feed  or  of  apples ;  but  there  is  more  likely  to 
be  some  story  of  the  woods — of  a  bull  moose 
seen  along  the  Liberty  road  or  a  buck  deer  in 
Luke  Hills'  pasture  or  a  big  catch  of  trout  in 
the  Kuffingham  Meadow  streams.  Now  and 


6  EVERED 

then,  just  about  mail  time  in  the  evening,  fish 
ermen  will  stop  at  the  store  to  weigh  their 
catches;  and  then  everyone  crowds  round  to 
see  and  remark  upon  the  matter. 

The  store  is  a  clearing-house  for  local  news ; 
and  this  must  be  so,  for  there  is  no  newspaper 
in  Fraternity.  Whatever  has  happened  within 
a  six-mile  radius  during  the  day  is  fairly  sure 
to  be  told  there  before  Will  locks  up  for  the 
night;  and  there  is  always  something  happen 
ing  in  Fraternity.  In  which  respect  it  is  very 
much  like  certain  villages  of  a  larger  growth, 
and  better  advertised. 

There  is  about  the  intimacy  of  life  in  a  little 
village  something  that  suggests  the  intimacy 
of  life  upon  the  sea.  There  is  not  the  primitive 
social  organization;  the  captain  as  lord  of  all 
he  surveys.  But  there  is  the  same  close  rubbing 
of  shoulders,  the  same  nakedness  of  impulse 
and  passion  and  longing  and  sorrow  and  desire. 
You  may  know  your  neighbor  well  enough  in 
the  city,  but  before  you  lend  him  money,  take 
him  for  a  camping  trip  in  the  woods  or  go  with 
him  to  sea.  Thereafter  you  will  know  the  man 
inside  and  out;  and  you  may,  if  you  choose, 
make  your  loan  with  a  knowledge  of  what  you 
are  about.  It  is  hard  to  keep  a  secret  in  a 


EVERED  7 

little  village;  and  Fraternity  is  a  little  village 
— that  and  nothing  more. 

On  weekday  nights,  as  has  been  said,  Will 
Bissell's  store  is  the  social  center  of  Frater 
nity.  Men  begin  to  gather  soon  after  supper ; 
they  begin  to  leave  when  the  stage  has  come  up 
from  Union  with  the  mail.  For  Will's  store  is 
post  office  as  well  as  market-place.  The  honey 
comb  of  mail  boxes  occupies  a  place  just  inside 
the  door,  next  to  the  candy  counter.  Will 
knows  his  business.  A  man  less  wise  might  put 
his  candies  back  among  the  farming  tools,  and 
his  tobacco  and  pipes  and  cigars  in  the  north 
wing,  with  the  ginghams,  but  Will  puts  them  by 
the  mail  boxes,  because  everyone  gets  mail  or 
hopes  for  it,  and  anyone  may  be  moved  to  buy 
a  bit  of  candy  while  he  waits  for  the  mail  to 
come. 

This  was  an  evening  in  early  June.  Will's 
stove  had  not  been  lighted  for  two  weeks  or 
more ;  but  to-night  there  was  for  the  first  time 
the  warm  breath  of  summer  in  the  air.  So  those 
who  usually  clustered  inside  were  outside  now, 
upon  the  high  flight  of  steps  which  led  up  from 
the  road.  Perhaps  a  dozen  men,  a  dog  or  two, 
half  a  dozen  boys.  Luke  Hills  had  just  come 
and  gone  with  the  season's  best  catch  of  trout — 


8  EVERED 

ten  of  them;  and  when  they  were  laid  head  to 
tail  they  covered  the  length  of  a  ten-foot  board. 
The  men  spoke  of  these  trout  now,  and  Judd, 
who  was  no  fisherman,  suggested  that  Luke 
must  have  snared  them ;  and  Jim  Saladine,  the 
best  deer  hunter  in  Fraternity  and  a  fair  and 
square  man,  told  Judd  he  was  witless  and  un 
fair.  Judd  protested,  grinning  meanly;  and 
Jean  Bubier,  the  Frenchman  from  the  head  of 
the  pond,  laughed  and  exclaimed:  "Now  you, 
m'sieu',  you  could  never  snare  those  trout  if 
you  come  upon  them  in  the  road,  eh?" 

They  were  laughing  in  their  slow  dry  way 
at  Judd's  discomfiture  when  the  hoofs  of  a 
horse  sounded  on  the  bridge  below  the  store; 
and  every  man  looked  that  way. 
It  was  Lee  Motley  who  said,  "It's  Evered." 
The  effect  was  curious.    The  men  no  longer 
laughed.    They  sat  quite  still,  as  though  under 
a  half -fearful  restraint,  and  pretended  not  to 
see  the  man  who  was  approaching. 


II 


THEKE  were  two  men  in  the  buggy  which 
came  up  the  little  ascent  from  the  bridge 
and  stopped  before  the  store.  The  men 
were  Evered,  and  Evered 's  son,  John.  Evered 
lived  on  a  farm  that  overlooked  the  Whitcher 
Swamp  on  the  farther  side.  He  was  a  man  of 
some  property,  a  successful  farmer.  He  was 
also  a  butcher;  and  his  services  were  called 
in  at  hog-killing  time  as  regularly  as  the  serv 
ices  of  Doctor  Crapo  in  times  of  sickness.  He 
knew  his  trade;  and  he  knew  the  anatomy  of 
a  steer  or  a  calf  or  a  sheep  as  well  as  Doctor 
Crapo  knew  the  anatomy  of  a  man.  He  was  an 
efficient  man;  a  brutally  efficient  man.  His 
orchard  was  regularly  trimmed  and  grafted 
and  sprayed;  his  hay  was  re-seeded  year  by 
year;  his  garden  never  knew  the  blight  of 
weeds;  his  house  was  clean,  in  good  repair, 
white-painted.  A  man  in  whom  dwelt  power 
and  strength ;  and  a  man  whom  other  men  dis 
liked  and  feared. 
He  was  a  short  man,  broad  of  shoulder,  with 

9 


10  EVERED 

a  thick  neck  and  a  square,  well-shaped  head,  a 
heavy  brow  and  a  steady  burning  eye.  A  som 
ber  man,  he  never  laughed;  never  was  known 
to  laugh.  There  was  a  blighting  something  in 
his  gaze  which  discouraged  laughter  in  others. 
He  was  known  to  have  a  fierce  and  ruthless 
temper ;  in  short,  a  fearsome  man,  hard  to  un 
derstand.  He  puzzled  his  neighbors  and  baf 
fled  them;  they  let  him  well  alone. 

He  was  driving  this  evening.  His  horse,  like 
everything  which  was  his,  was  well-groomed 
and  in  perfect  condition.  It  pranced  a  little  as 
it  came  up  to  the  store,  not  from  high  spirits, 
but  from  nervousness.  So  much  might  be 
known  by  the  white  glint  of  its  eye.  The  nerv 
ousness  of  a  mettled  creature  too  much  re 
strained.  It  pranced  a  little,  and  Evered's 
hand  tightened  on  the  rein  so  harshly  that  the 
horse's  lower  jaw  was  pulled  far  back  against 
its  neck,  and  the  creature  was  abruptly  still, 
trembling,  and  sweating  faintly  for  no  cause  at 
all.  Evered  paid  no  more  heed  to  the  horse. 
He  looked  toward  the  group  of  men  upon  the 
steps,  and  some  met  his  eye,  and  some  looked 
away. 

He  looked  at  them,  one  by  one ;  and  he  asked 
Lee  Motley:  "Is  the  mail  come?" 


EVERED  11 

Motley  shook  his  head.  He  was  a  farmer  of 
means,  a  strong  man,  moved  by  no  fear  of 
Evered.  "No,"  he  said. 

Evered  passed  the  reins  to  his  son.  "Hold 
him  still,"  he  told  the  young  man,  and  stepped 
out  over  the  wheel  to  the  ground,  dropping 
lightly  as  a  cat.  The  horse  gave  a  half  leap 
forward  and  was  caught  by  John  Evered  'a 
steady  hand;  and  the  young  man  spoke  gently 
to  the  beast  to  quiet  it. 

Evered  from  the  ground  looked  up  at  his 
son  and  said  harshly,  "I  bade  you  hold  him 
still." 

The  other  answered,  "I  will." 

"You'd  best,"  said  Evered,  and  turned  and 
strode  up  the  steps  into  the  store. 

The  incident  had  brought  out  vividly  enough 
the  difference  between  Evered  and  his  son. 
They  were  two  characters  sharply  contrasting ; 
for  where  Evered  was  harsh,  John  was  gentle 
of  speech ;  and  where  Evered  was  abrupt,  John 
was  slow;  and  where  Evered  7s  eye  was  hard 
and  angry,  John's  was  mild.  They  contrasted 
physically.  The  son  was  tall,  well-formed  and 
fair ;  the  father  was  short,  almost  squat  in  his 
broad  strength,  and  black  of  hair  and  eye. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  plain  to  the  seeing  eye 


12  EVERED 

that  there  was  strength  in  John  as  there  was 
strength  in  Evered — strength  of  body  and 
soul. 

When  Evered  had  gone  into  the  store  Motley 
said  to  the  son,  "It's  warm," 

The  young  man  nodded  in  a  wistfully  friend 
ly  way.  "Yes,"  he  agreed.  "So  warm  it's 
brought  up  our  peas  this  day." 

"That  south  slope  of  yours  is  good  garden 
land,"  Motley  told  him,  and  John  said: 

"Yes.    As  good  as  I  ever  see." 

Everyone  liked  John  Evered;  and  someone 
asked  now:  "Been  fishing  any,  over  at  Wil 
son's?" 

John  shook  his  head.  "Too  busy,"  he  ex 
plained.  "But  I  hear  how  they're  catching 
some  good  strings  there." 

"Luke  Hills  brought  in  ten  to-night  that 
was  ten  feet  long,"  Jim  Saladine  offered. 
"Got  'em  at  Kuffingham." 

The  young  man  in  the  buggy  smiled  delight 
edly,  his  eyes  shining.  "Golly,  what  a  catch!" 
he  exclaimed. 

Then  Evered  came  to  the  door  of  the  store 
and  looked  out,  and  silence  fell  upon  them  all 
once  more.  The  mail  was  coming  down  the 
hill;  the  stage,  a  rattling,  rusted,  do-or-die 


EVERED  13 

automobile  of  ancient  vintage,  squeaked  to  a 
shrill  stop  before  the  very  nose  of  Evered 's 
horse.  John  spoke  to  the  horse,  and  it  was 
still.  The  stage  driver  took  the  mail  sacks 
in,  and  Evered  left  the  doorway.  The  others 
all  got  up  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

Motley  said  to  Saladine,  "Did  you  mark  the 
horse?  It  was  scared  of  the  stage,  but  it  was 
still  at  his  word,  and  he  did  not  tighten  rein." 

"I  saw,"  Saladine  agreed.  "The  boy  han 
dles  it  fine." 

"It's  feared  of  Evered;  but  the  beast  love^ 
the  boy." 

"There's  others  in  that  same  way  o'  think 
ing,"  said  Saladine. 

Inside  the  store  Will  Bis  sell  and  Andy 
Wattles,  his  lank  and  loyal  clerk,  were  stamp 
ing  and  sorting  the  mail.  No  great  matter, 
for .  few  letters  come  to  Fraternity.  While 
this  was  under  way  Evered  gathered  up  the 
purchases  he  had  made  since  he  came  into  the 
store,  and  took  them  out  and  stowed  them 
under  the  seat  of  the  buggy.  He  did  not  speak 
to  his  son.  John  sat  still  in  his  place,  moving 
his  feet  out  of  the  other's  way.  When  the 
bundles  were  all  bestowed  Evered  went  back 
up  the  steps  and  Will  gave  him  his  daily  paper 


14  EVERED 

and  a  letter  addressed  to  his  wife,  and  Evered 
took  them  without  thanks,  and  left  the  store 
without  farewell  to  any  man,  and  climbed  into 
the  buggy  and  took  the  reins.  He  turned  the 
horse  sharply  and  they  moved  down  the  hill, 
and  the  bridge  sounded  for  a  moment  beneath 
their  passing.  In  the  still  evening  air  the 
pound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  and  the  light  whir 
ring  of  the  wheels  persisted  for  long  moments 
before  they  died  down  to  blend  with  the  hum 
and  murmur  of  tiny  sounds  that  filled  the 
whispering  dusk. 

As  they  drove  away  one  or  two  men  came 
to  the  door  to  watch  them  go;  and  Judd,  a 
man  with  a  singular  capacity  for  mean  and 
tawdry  malice,  said  loudly,  "That  boy '11  break 
Evered,  some  day,  across  his  knee." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Jean 
Bubier  said  cheerfully  that  he  would  like  to 
see  the  thing  done.  "But  that  Evered,  he  is 
one  leetle  fighter,"  he  reminded  Judd. 

Judd  laughed  unpleasantly  and  said  Evered 
had  the  town  bluffed.  "That's  all  he  is,"  he 
told  them.  "A  black  scowl  and  some  cussing. 
Nothing  else.  You'll  see." 

Motley  shook  his  head  soberly.    "  Evered 's 


EVERED  IS 

no  bluff,"  he  said.  "You're  forgetting  that 
matter  of  the  knife,  Judd." 

Motley's  reminder  put  a  momentary  silence 
upon  them  all.  The  story  of  the  knife  was 
well  enough  known;  the  knife  they  had  all 
seen.  The  thing  had  happened  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  before,  and  was  one  of  the  tales 
many  times  told  about  Will's  stove.  One  Dave 
Eiggs,  drunken  and  worthless,  farming  in  a 
small  way  in  North  Fraternity,  sent  for 
Evered  to  kill  a  pig.  Evered  went  to  Eiggs' 
farm.  Eiggs  had  been  drinking;  he  was  quar 
relsome;  he  sought  to  interfere  with  Evered 's 
procedure.  Motley,  a  neighbor  of  Eiggs,  had 
been  there  at  the  time,  and  used  to  tell  the 
story, 

"Eiggs  wanted  him  to  tie  up  the  pig,"  he 
would  explain.  "You  know  Evered  does  not 
do  that.  He  says  they  will  not  bleed  properly, 
tied.  He  did  not  argue  with  the  man,  but 
Eiggs  persisted  in  his  drunken  way,  and  cursed 
Evered  to  his  face,  till  I  could  see  the  blood 
mounting  in  the  butcher's  cheeks.  He  is  a 
bad-tempered  man,  always  was. 

"He  turned  on  Eiggs  and  told  the  man  to 
hush;  and  Eiggs  damned  him.  Evered 
knocked  him  flat  with  a  single  fist  stroke;  and 


16  EVERED 

while  Eiggs  was  still  on  the  ground  Evered 
turned  and  got  the  pig  by  the  ears  and  slipped 
the  knife  into  its  throat,  in  that  smooth  way 
he  has.  When  he  drew  it  out  the  blood  came 
after;  and  Evered  turned  to  Eiggs,  just  get 
ting  on  his  feet. 

"  '  There's  your  pig/  said  Evered.  *  Butch 
ered  right.  Now,  man,  be  still.' 

"Well,  Eiggs  took  a  look  at  the  pig  and 
another  at  Evered.  He  was  standing  by  the 
chopping  block,  and  his  hand  fell  on  the  ax 
stuck  there.  Before  I  could  stir  he  had  lifted 
it,  whirling  it,  and  was  sweeping  down  on 
Evered. 

"It  was  all  over  quick,  you'll  mind.  Eiggs 
rushing,  with  the  ax  whistling  in  the  air.  Then 
Evered  stepped  inside  its  swing,  and  drove  at 
Eiggs'  head.  I  think  he  forgot  he  had  the 
knife  in  his  hand.  But  it  was  there ;  his  hand 
drove  it  with  the  cunning  that  it  knew — at  the 
forehead  of  the  other  man. 

"I  mind  how  Eiggs  looked,  after  he  had 
dropped.  On  his  back  he  was,  the  knife  stick 
ing  straight  up  from  his  head.  And  it  still 
smeared  with  the  pig's  blood,  dripping  down 
on  the  dead  man's  face.  Oh,  aye,  he  was  dead. 
Dead  as  the  pig,  when  it  quit  its  walking  round 


EVERED  17 

in  a  little,  and  laid  down,  and  stopped  its 
squeal." 

Someone  asked  him  once,  when  he  had  told 
the  tale:  " Where  was  Biggs'  wife?  Mar 
ried,  wa'n't  he?" 

"In  the  house,"  said  Motley.  "The  boy 
was  there,  though.  He'd  come  to  see  the  pig 
stuck,  and  when  he  saw  the  blood  come  out 
of  its  throat  he  yelled  and  run.  So  he  didn't 
have  to  see  the  rest — the  knife  in  his  father's 
head." 

There  had  been  no  prosecution  of  Evered 
for  that  ancient  tragedy.  Motley's  story  was 
clear  enough;  it  had  been  self-defense  at  the 
worst,  and  half  accident  besides.  Riggs'  wife 
went  away  and  took  her  son,  and  Fraternity 
knew  them  no  more. 

They  conned  over  this  ancient  tale  of 
Evered  in  Will's  store  that  night;  and  some 
blamed  him,  and  some  found  him  not  to  blame. 
And  when  they  were  done  with  that  story  they 
told  others ;  how  when  he  was  called  to  butcher 
sheep  he  had  a  trick  of  breaking  their  necks 
across  his  knee  with  a  twist  and  a  jerk  of  his 
hands.  There  was  no  doubt  of  the  man's 
strength  nor  of  his  temper. 

A  West  Fraternity  man  came  in  while  they 


18  EVERED 

were  talking;  one  Zeke  Pitkin,  a  mild  man,  and 
timid.  He  listened  to  their  words,  and  asked 
at  last,  "Evered?" 

They  nodded;  and  Pitkin  laughed  in  an 
awkward  way.  "He  killed  my  bull  to-day,"  he 
said. 

Will  Bissell  asked  quickly,  "Killed  your 
bull?  You  have  him  do  it?" 

Pitkin  nodded,  gulping  at  his  Adam's  apple. 
"Getting  ugly,  the  bull  was,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  like  to  handle  him.  Decided  to  beef 
him.  So  I  sent  for  Evered,  and  he  came 
over." 

He  looked  round  at  them,  laughed  uneasily. 
"He  scared  me,"  he  said. 

Motley  asked  slowly.  "What  happened, 
Zeke?" 

Pitkin  rubbed  one  hand  nervously  along  his 
leg.  "We-ell,"  he  explained.  "I'm  nervous 
like.  Git  excited  easy.  So  when  he  come  I 
told  him  the  bull  was  ugly.  Told  him  to  look 
out  for  it. 

"He  just  only  looked  at  me  in  that  hard 
way  of  his.  I  had  the  bull  in  the  barn;  and 
he  went  in  where  it  was  and  fetched  it  out  in 
the  barn  floor.  Left  the  bull  standing  there 
and  begun  to  fix  his  tackle  to  h'ist  it  up. 


EVERED  19 

"I  didn't  want  to  stay  in  there  with  the 
bull.  I  was  scared  of  it — it  loose  there,  noth 
ing  to  hold  it.  And  Evered  kept  working 
round  it,  back  to  the  beast  half  the  time.  Noth 
ing  to  stop  it  tossing  him.  I  didn't  like  to 
get  out,  but  I  didn't  want  to  stay.  And  I 
guess  I  talked  too  much.  Kept  telling  him  to 
hurry,  and  asking  him  why  he  didn't  kill  it 
and  all.  Got  him  mad,  I  guess." 

The  man  shivered  a  little,  his  eyes  dim  with 
the  memory  of  the  moment.  He  took  off  his 
hat  and  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  head,  and 
Motley  said,  " He  did  kill  it!" 

Pitkin  nodded  uneasily.  "Yeah,"  he  said. 
" Evered  turned  round  to  me  by  and  by;  and 
he  looked  at  me  under  them  black  eyebrows 
of  his,  and  he  says:  'Want  I  should  kill  this 
bull,  do  you?'  I  'lows  that  I  did.  'Want  him 
killed  now,  do  you?'  he  says,  and  I  told  him  I 
did.  And  I  did  too.  I  was  scared  of  that  bull, 
I  say.  But  not  the  way  he  did  kill  it." 

He  shuddered  openly;  and  Motley  asked 
again,  "What  did  he  do?" 

"Stepped  up  aside  the  bull,"  said  Pitkin 
hurriedly.  "Yanked  out  that  knife  of  his — 
that  same  knife — out  of  his  sheath.  Up  with 
it,  and  down,  so  quick  I  never  see  what  he  did, 


20  EVERED 

Down  with  the  knife  right  behind  the  bull's 
horns.  Eight  into  the  neck  bone.  And  that 
bull  o*  mine  went  down  like  a  ton  o'  brick. 
Like  two  ton  o'  brick.  Stone  dead." 

Will  Bissell  echoed,  "Stabbed  it  in  the 
neck?" 

"Eight  through  the  neck  bone.  With  that 
damned  heavy  knife  o'  his."  He  wiped  his 
forehead  again.  "We  had  a  hell  of  a  time 
h'isting  that  bull,  too,"  he  said  weakly.  "A 
hell  of  a  "time." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment.  They  were 
digesting  this  tale  of  Evered.  Then  Judd 
said:  "I'd  like  to  see  that  red  bull  of  his  git 
after  that  man." 

One  or  two  nodded,  caught  themselves, 
looked  sheepishly  round  to  discovar  whether 
they  had  been  seen.  Evered 's  red  bull  was 
as  well  and  unfavorably  known  as  the  man 
himself.  A  huge  brute,  shoulder  high  to  a 
tall  man,  ugly  of  disposition,  forever  bellowing 
challenges  across  the  hills  from  Evered 's  barn, 
frightening  womenfolk  in  their  homes  a  mile 
away.  A  creature  of  terror,  ruthlessly  curbed 
and  goaded  by  Evered.  It  was  known  that 
the  butcher  took  delight  in  mastering  the  bull, 
torturing  the  beast  with  ingenious  twists  of 


EVERED  21 

the  nose  ring,  with  blows  on  the  leg  joints,  and 
nose,  and  the  knobs  where  horns  should  have 
been.  The  red  bull  was  of  a  hornless  breed. 
The  great  head  of  it  was  like  a  buffalo's  head, 
like  a  huge  malicious  battering  ram.  It  was 
impossible  to  look  at  the  beast  without  a 
tremor  of  alarm. 

"It's  ugly  business  to  see  Evered  handle 
that  bull,"  Will  Belter  said,  half  to  himself. 

And  after  a  little  silence  Jean  Bubier 
echoed:  "Almost  as  ugly  as  to  see  the  man 
with  his  wife.  When  I  have  see  that,  some 
time,  I  have  think  I  might  take  his  own  knife 
to  him." 

Judd,  the  malicious,  laughed  in  an  ugly  way; 
and  he  said,  "Guess  Evered  would  treat  her 
worse  if  he  got  an  eye  on  her  and  that  man 
Semler." 

It  was  Jim  Saladine's  steady  voice  which 
put  an  end  to  that.  "Don't  put  your  foul 
mouth  on  her,  Judd,"  he  said  quietly.  "Not 
if  you  want  to  walk  home." 

Judd  started  to  speak,  caught  Saladine's 
quiet  eye  and  was  abruptly  still. 


HI 


EVEEED  -and  his  son  drove  home  together 
through  the  clotting  dusk  in  a  silence 
that  was  habitual  with  them.  The 
buggy  was  -a  light  vehicle,  the  horse  was  swift 
and  powerful,  and  they  made  good  time. 
Evered,  driving,  used  the  whip  now  and  then; 
and  at  each  red-hot  touch  of  the  light  lash 
the  horse  leaped  like  a  stricken  thing;  and 
at  each  whiplash  John  Evered 's  lips  pressed 
firmly  each  against  the  other,  as  though  to 
hold  back  the  word  he  would  have  said.  No 
good  in  speaking,  he  knew.  It  would  only 
rouse  the  lightly  slumbering  anger  in  his 
father,  only  lead  to  more  hurts  for  the  horse, 
and  a  black  scowl  -or  an  oath  to  himself.  There 
were  times  when  John  Evered  longed  to  put 
his  strength  against  his  father's;  when  he  was 
hungry  for  the  feel  of  flesh  beneath  his  smash 
ing  fists.  But  these  moments  were  few.  He 
understood  the  older  man;  there  was  a  blood 
sympathy  between  them.  He  knew  his  father's 


EVERED  23 

heart  as  no  other  did  or  could;  and  in  the 
last  analysis  he  loved  his  father  loyally.  Thus 
had  he  learned  long  patience  and  restraint.  It 
is  very  easy  to  damn  and  hate  a  man  like 
Evered,  hot  and  fierce  and  ruthlessly  over 
bearing.  But  John  Evered,  his  son,  who  had 
suffered  more  from  Evered  than  any  other 
man,  neither  damned  nor  hated  him. 

They  drove  home  together  in  silence. 
Evered  s(at  still  in  his  seat,  but  there  was  no 
relaxation  in  his  attitude.  He  was  still  as  a 
tiger  is  still  before  the  charge  and  the  leap. 
John  -at  his  side  could  feel  the  other's  shoul 
der  muscles  tensing.  His  father  was  always 
so,  always  -a  boiling  vessel  of  emotions.  You 
might  call  him  a  powerful  man,  a  masterful 
man.  John  Evered  knew  him  for  a  slave,  for 
the  slave  of  his  own  hot  and  angry  pulse 
beats.  And  he  loved  and  pitied  him. 

Out  of  Fraternity  they  took  the  Liberty 
road,  and  came  presently  to  a  turning  which 
led  them  to  the  right,  and  so  to  the  way  to 
Evered 's  farm,  a  narrow  road,  leading  no 
where  except  into  the  farmyard,  and  traveled 
by  few  men  who  had  no  business  there. 

When  they  came  into  the  farmyard  it  was 
almost  dark.  Yet  there  was  still  light  enough 


24  EVERED 

to  see,  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  barn,  the 
sloping  hillside  that  led  down  to  Whitcher 
Swamp;  and  the  swamp  itself,  brooding  be 
neath  its  gray  mists  in  <the  thickening  night. 
The  farm  buildings  were  set  on  a  jutting 
shoulder  of  the  hill,  looking  out  across  the 
valley  where  the  swamp  lay,  to  Fraternity,  and 
off  toward  Moody  Mountain  beyond  the  town. 
By  day  there  was  a  glory  in  this  valley  that 
was  spread  below  them ;  by  night  it  was  a  place 
of  dark  and  mystery.  Sounds  used  to  come  up 
the  hill  from  the  swamp ;  the  sounds  of  thrash 
ing  brush  where  the  moose  fed,  or  perhaps  the 
clash  of  ponderous  antlers  in  the  fall,  or  the 
wicked  scream  of  a  marauding  cat,  or  the  harsh 
cries  of  night-hawks,  or  the  tremolo  hoot  of 
an  owl. 

Built  against  the  barn  on  the  side  away 
from  the  house  there  was  a  stout  roofed  stall ; 
and  opening  from  this  stall  a  pen  with  board 
walls  higher  than  a  man's  head  and  cedar 
posts  as  thick  as  a  man's  leg,  set  every  four 
feet  to  support  the  planking  of  the  walls.  As 
the  horse  stopped  in  the  farmyard  and  Evered 
and  his  son  alighted,  a  sound  came  from  this 
stall — a  low,  inhuman,  monstrous  sound,  like 
the  rumbling  of  a  storm,  like  the  complaint  of 


EVERED  25 

a  hungry  beast,  like  the  promise  of  evil  things 
4;oo  dreadful  for  describing;  the  muffled  roar 
ing  of  Evered 's  great  red  bull,  disturbed  by 
the  sound  of  the  horse.  John  Evered  stood  still 
for  an  instant,  listening.  It  was  impossible 
for  most  men  to  hear  that  sound  without  an 
appalling  tremor  of  the  heart.  But  Evered 
himself  gave  no  heed  to  it.  He  spoke  to  the 
horse.  He  said  "Hush,  now.  Stfll." 

The  horse  was  as  still  as  stone,  yet  it 
trembled  as  it  had  trembled  at  Will's  store. 
Evered  gathered  parcels  from  beneath  the 
seat;  and  John  filled  his  arms  with  what 
remained.  They  turned  toward  the  house 
together,  the  son  a  little  behind  the  father. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
farmhouse;  and  a  woman  had  come  to  the 
open  door  and  was  looking  out  toward  them. 
She  was  silhouetted  blackly  by  the  light  be 
hind  her.  It  revealed  her  figure  as  slim  and 
pleasantly  graven.  The  lamp's  rays  turned 
her  hair  into  an  iridescent  halo  about  her 
head.  She  rested  one  hand  against  the  frame 
of  the  door;  and  her  lifted  arm  guided  her 
body  into  graceful  lines. 

She  called  to  them  in  a  low  voice,  "Do  you 
need  light f" 


26  EVERED 

Evered  answered.  "If  yon  were  out  of  the 
door  there 'd  be  light  enough,"  he  said. 

The  woman  lifted  her  hand  to  her  lips  in 
a  hurt  little  gesture;  and  she  stepped  aside 
with  no  further  word.  She  still  stood  thus, 
at  one  side  of  the  door,  when  they  came  in. 
The  lamplight  fell  full  upon  her,  full  upon  her 
countenance. 

The  woman's  face,  the  face  of  this  woman 
whose  body  still  bore  youthful  lines,  was 
shocking.  There  were  weary  contours  in  it; 
there  were  shadows  of  pain  beneath  the  eyes; 
there  was  anguish  in  the  mobile  lips.  The  hair 
which  had  seemed  like  a  halo  showed  now  like 
a  white  garland;  snow  white,  though  it  still 
lay  heavy  and  glossy  as  a  girl's.  She  was 
like  a  statue  of  sorrow;  the  figure  of  a  sad  and 
tortured  life. 

The  woman  was  Evered 's  second  wife; 
Evered 's  wife,  Mary  Evered.  His  wife,  whom 
he  had  won  in  a  courtship  that  was  like  red 
flowers  in  spring ;  whom  he  had  made  to  suffer 
interminably,  day  by  day,  till  suffering  be 
came  routine  and  death  would  have  been  hap 
piness;  and  whom — believe  it  or  no — Evered 
had  always  and  would  forever  love  with  a 
love  that  was  like  torment.  There  is  set  per- 


EVERED  27 

versely  in  man  and  woman  alike  an  impulse  to 
tease  and  hurt  and  distress  those  whom  we 
love.  It  is,  of  this  stuff  that  lovers'  quarrels 
are  made ;  it  is  from  this  that  the  heartbreaks 
of  the  honeymoon  are  born.  The  men  and 
women  of  the  fairy  tales,  who  marry  and  live 
happily  ever  after,  are  fairy  tales  themselves; 
or  else  they  never  loved.  For  loving,  which 
is  sacrifice  and  service  and  kindness  and  de 
votion,  is  also  misunderstanding  and  distor 
tion  and  perversity  and  unhappiness  most 
profound.  It  is  a  part  of  love  to  quarrel; 
the  making-up  is  often  so  sweet  it  justifies  the 
anguish  of  the  conflict.  Mary  Evered  knew 
this.  But  Evered  had  a  stiff  pride  in  him 
which  would  not  let  him  yield;  be  he  ever  so 
deeply  wrong  he  held  his  ground;  and  Mary 
was  sick  with  much  yielding. 

Annie  Paisley,  who  lived  at  the  next  farm 
ton  the  North  Fraternity  road,  had  given  Mary 
Evered  something  to  think  about  when  Paisley 
died,  the  year  before. 

For  over  Paisley 's  very  coffin  Annie  had 
said  in  a  thoughtful,  reminiscent  way:  "Yes, 
Mary;  Jim  'uz  a  good  husband  to  me  for  nigh 
on  thirty  year.  A  good  pervider,  and  a  kind 
man,  and  a  good  father.  He  never  drunk,  nor 


28  EVERED 

ever  wasted  what  little  money  we  got;  and  we 
always  had  plenty  to  do  with;  and  the  chil 
dren  liked  him.  Kind  to  me,  he  was.  Gentle." 
Her  eyes  had  narrowed  thoughtfully.  "But 
Mary,"  she  said,  "you  know  I  never  liked 
him." 

Mary  Evered  had  been  a  girl  of  spirit  and 
strength;  and  if  she  had  not  loved  Evered 
she  would  never  have  stayed  with  him  a  year. 
Loving  him  she  had  stayed;  and  the  bitter 
years  rolled  over  her;  stayed  because  she 
loved  him,  and  because  she — like  her  son — 
understood  the  heart  of  the  man,  and  knew 
that  through  all  his  ruthless  strength  and  hard 
purpose,  with  all  his  might  he  loved  her. 

She  said  now  in  the  kitchen:  "You  got  the 
salt  pork?" 

"Of  course  I  got  the  salt  pork,"  Evered 
told  her  in  a  level  tone  that  was  like  a  whip 
across  her  shoulders.  He  dumped  his  parcels 
on  the  table,  pointed  to  one;  and  she  took  it 
up  in  a  hurried  furtive  way  and  turned  to 
the  stove.  John  laid  down  his  bundles,  and 
Evered  said  to  him:  "Put  the  horse  away." 
The  young  man  nodded,  and  went  out  into  the 
farmyard. 

The   horse   still   stood  where   Evered   had 


EVERED  29 

bade  it  stand.  John  went  to  the  creature's 
head  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  the  velvety 
nose,  and  spoke  softly;  and  after  a  moment 
the  horse  mouthed  his  hand  with  its  lips.  He 
took  the  bridle  and  led  it  toward  the  stable. 
There  was  a  lantern  hanging  by  the  door,  but 
he  did  not  light  it.  The  young  man  loved  the 
still  darkness  of  the  night;  there  was  some 
quality  in  the  damp  cool  air  which  was  like 
wine  to  him.  And  he  needed  no  light  for  what 
he  had  to  do ;  he  knew  every  wooden  peg  in  the 
barn's  stout  frame,  blindfolded;  for  the  barn 
and  the  farm  had  been  his  world  for  more  than 
twenty  years. 

Outside  the  stable  door  he  stopped  the  horse 
and  loosed  the  traces  and  led  it  out  of  the 
thills,  which  he  lowered  carefully  to  the  ground. 
The  horse  turned,  as  of  habit,  to  a  tub  full  of 
water  which  stood  beside  the  barn  door;  and 
while  the  creature  drank  John  backed  the 
buggy  into  the  carriage  shed  and  propped  up 
the  thills  with  a  plank.  When  he  came  to  the 
stable  door  again  the  horse  was  waiting  for 
him;  and  he  heard  its  breath  whir  in  a  sound 
less  whinny  of  greeting.  He  stripped  away  the 
harness  expertly,  hanging  it  on  pegs  against 
the  wall,  and  adjusted  the  halter.  Once,  while 


30  EVERED 

he  worked,  the  red  bull  in  its  closed  stall  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  barn  bellowed  softly; 
and  the  young  man  called  to  the  beast  in  a 
tone  that  was  at  once  strong  and  kindly. 

He  put  the  horse  in  its  stall,  tied  the  halter 
rope,  and  stepped  out  into  the  open  floor  of 
the  barn  to  pull  down  hay  for  the  beast.  It 
was  when  he  did  so  that  he  became  conscious 
that  someone  was  near.  He  could  not  have  told 
how  he  knew;  but  there  was,  of  a  sudden,  a 
warmth  and  a  friendliness  in  the  very  air 
about  him,  so  that  his  breath  came  a  little  more 
quickly.  He  stood  very  still  for  a  moment; 
and  then  he  looked  toward  the  stable  door. 
His  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  dark,  discovered 
her.  She  had  come  inside  the  barn  and  was 
standing  against  the  wall,  watching  him.  He 
could  see  the  dim  white  blur  of  her  face  in  the 
darkness ;  he  could  almost  see  the  glow  that  lay 
always  in  her  eyes  for  him. 
He  said  quietly,  "  Hello,  Kuth." 
And  she  answered  him,  " Hello,  John." 
"I've  got  to  pull  down  a  little  hay,"  he  said. 
It  was  as  though  he  apologized  for  not  coming 
at  once  to  her  side. 

"Yes,"  she  told  him,  and  stood  there  while 
he  finished  tending  the  horse. 


EVERED  31 

When  he  had  done  he  went  toward  her  slowly 
and  stood  before  her,  and  she  moved  a  little 
nearer  to  him,  so  that  he  put  his  arms  awk 
wardly  round  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her. 
He  felt  her  lips  move  against  his;  felt  her 
womanly  and  strong.  There  was  no  passion  in 
their  caress;  only  an  awkward  tenderness  on 
his  part,  a  deep  affection  on  hers. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  out,"  he  said;  and  she 
nodded  against  his  shoulder. 

They  went  into  the  barnyard,  and  his  arm 
was  about  her  waist. 

"It's  warm  to-night,"  she  told  him.  "Sum 
mer's  about  here." 

He  nodded.  "We'll  have  green  peas  by  the 
Fourth  if  we  don't  git  a  frost." 

Neither  of  them  wanted  to  get  at  once  to  the 
house.  There  was  youth  in  them;  the  house 
was  no  place  for  youth.  She  was  Ruth  Mac- 
Lure,  Mary  Evered's  sister.  Not,  by  that  to 
ken,  John  Evered's  aunt;  for  John  Evered's 
mother  was  dead  many  years  gone,  before 
Evered  took  Mary  MacLure  for  wife.  A  year 
ago  old  Bill  MacLure  had  died  and  Euth  had 
come  to  live  with  her  sister.  John  had  never 
known  her  till  then;  since  then  he  found  it 
impossible  to  understand  how  he  had  ever  lived 


32  EVERED 

without  knowing  her.  She  was  years  younger 
than  her  sister,  three  years  younger  than  John 
Evered  himself;  and  he  loved  her. 

They  crossed  the  barnyard  to  the  fence  and 
looked  down  into  the  shadowy  pit  of  blackness 
where  the  swamp  lay,  half  a  mile  below  them. 
They  rested  their  elbows  on  the  top  bar  of  the 
fence.  Once  or  twice  the  bull  muttered  in  his 
stall  a  few  rods  away.  They  could  hear  the 
champ  of  the  horse's  teeth  as  the  beast  fed 
before  sleeping;  they  could  hear  Evered 's  cows 
stirring  in  their  tie-up.  The  night  was  very 
still  and  warm,  as  though  heaven  brooded  like 
a  mother  over  the  earth. 

The  girl  said  at  last,  "Semler  was  here  while 
you  were  gone." 

The  young  man  asked  slowly,  "What  fetched 
him  here?" 

"He  was  on  his  way  home  from  fishing,  down 
in  the  swamp  stream." 

"Did  he  do  anything  down  there?" 

"Had  seventeen.  One  of  them  was  thirteen 
inches  long.  He  wanted  to  leave  some,  but 
Mary  wouldn't  let  him." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  then  John 
Evered  said,  "Best  not  tell  my  father." 

The  girl  cried  under  her  breath,  with  an  im- 


EVERED  33 

patient  gesture  of  her  hand,  "I'm  not  going  to. 
But  I  hate  it.  It  isn't  fair.  Mary  wants  him 
to  keep  away.  He  bothers  her." 

"I  can  keep  him  away." 

"You  did  tell  him  not  to  come." 

"I  can  make  him  not  come,"  said  John 
Evered;  and  the  girl  fell  silent,  and  said  at 
last,  "He's  writing  to  her.  Oh,  John,  what 
can  she  do?  More  than  she  has  done?" 

"I'll  see  to't  he  stays  away,"  the  young  man 
promised;  and  the  girl's  hand  fell  on  his  arm. 

"Please  do,"  she  said.  "He's  so  unfair  to 
Mary." 

A  little  later,  when  they  turned  at  last 
toward  the  house,  John  said  half  to  himself, 
"If  my  father  ever  heard,  he'd  bust  that 
man." 

"I  wish  he  would,"  the  girl  said  hotly. 
"But — I'm  afraid  he'd  find  some  way  to  blame 
Mary.  He  mustn't  know." 

"I'll  see  Dane  Semler,"  John  promised. 

On  the  doorstep  they  kissed  again.  Then 
they  went  into  the  house  together.  Evered 
sitting  by  the  lamp  with  his  paper  looked  up 
at  them  bleakly,  but  said  no  word.  Mary 
Evered  smiled  at  her  sister,  smiled  at  John. 
She  loved  her  husband's  son,  had  loved  him 


34  EVERED 

like  a  mother  since  she  came  to  the  house  and 
found  him,  a  boy  not  four  years  old,  helping 
with  the  chores  as  a  grown  man  might  have 
'done.  She  had  found  something  pitiful  in  the 
strength  and  the  reserve  of  the  little  fellow; 
and  she  had  mothered  out  of  him  some  mo 
ments  of  softness  and  affection  that  would 
have  surprised  his  father. 

There  was  a  certain  measure  of  reassurance 
in  his  eyes  as  he  returned  her  smile.  But 
when  he  had  sat  down  across  the  table  from 
his  father,  where  she  could  not  see  his  face, 
he  became  sober  and  very  thoughtful.  He  was 
considering  the  matter  of  Dane  Semler. 


TV 


FIRST  word  of  the  tragedy  came  to  "Will 
BisselPs  store  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  the  next  day  but  one ;  and  the 
manner  of  the  coming  was  this: 

The  day  had  been  lowering  and  sultry;  such 
a  day  as  Fraternity  was  accustomed  to  expect 
in  mid- August,  when  the  sun  was  heavy  on  the 
land  and  the  air  was  murky  with  sea  fogs 
blown  in  from  the  bay.  A  day  when  there 
seemed  to  be  a  malignant  spirit  in  the  very 
earth  itself;  a  day  when  to  work  was  torment, 
and  merely  to  move  about  was  sore  discom 
fort.  A  day  when  dogs  snarled  at  their  mas 
ters,  and  masters  cursed  at  their  dogs;  when 
sullen  passions  boiled  easily  to  the  surface, 
and  tempers  were  frayed  to  the  last  splitting 
strand. 

No  breath  of  air  was  stirring  as  the  evening 
came  down.  The  sun  had  scarce  shown  itself 
all  day ;  the  coming  of  night  was  indicated  only 
by  a  growing  obscurity,  by  a  thickening  of  the 
murky  shadows  in  the  valleys  and  the  gray 

35 


36  EVERED 

clouds  that  hid  the  hills.  Men  slighted  their 
evening  chores,  did  them  hurriedly  or  not  at 
all,  and  made  haste  to  get  into  the  open  air. 
From  the  houses  of  the  village  they  moved 
toward  Will's  store;  and  some  of  them  stopped 
on  the  bridge  above  the  brook,  as  though  the 
sound  of  running  water  below  them  had  some 
cooling  power;  and  some  climbed  the  little 
slope  and  sat  on  the  high  steps  of  the  store. 
They  talked  little  or  none,  spoke  in  monosyl 
lables  when  they  spoke  at  all.  They  were  too 
hot  and  weary  and  uncomfortable  for  talking. 

No  one  seemed  to  be  in  any  hurry.  The  men 
moved  slowly;  tEe  occasional  wagon  or  buggy 
that  drove  into  town  came  at  a  walk;  even  the 
automobiles  seemed  to  move  with  a  sullen  re 
luctance.  So  it  was  not  surprising  that  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  running  feet  coming  along 
the  Liberty  road  should  quickly  attract  their 
ears. 

They  heard  it  first  when  the  horse  topped 
the  rise  above  the  mill,  almost  a  mile  away. 
The  horse  was  galloping.  The  sounds  were 
hushed  while  the  creature  dipped  into  a  hol 
low,  and  rang  more  loudly  when  it  climbed  a 
nearer  knoll  and  came  on  across  the  level 
meadow  road  toward  the  town.  The  beat  of 


EVERED  37 

its  hoofs  was  plainly  audible;  and  men  asked 
each  other  whose  horse  it  was,  and  what  the 
hurry  might  be;  and  one  or  two,  more  ener 
getic  than  the  rest,  stood  up  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  road  by  which  the  beast  was  coming. 

Just  before  it  came  into  their  sight  they 
heard  it  stop  galloping  and  come  on  at  a  trot; 
and  a  moment  later  horse  and  rider  came  in 
sight,  and  every  man  saw  who  it  was. 

Jean  Bubier  exclaimed,  "It  is  M'sieu' 
Sender." 

And  Judd  echoed,  "Dane  Semler.  In  a  hell 
of  a  hurry,  too." 

Then  the  man  pulled  his  horse  to  a  stand  at 
the  foot  of  the  store  steps  and  swung  off.  He 
had  been  riding  bareback;  and  he  was  in  the 
garments  which  he  was  accustomed  to  wear 
when  he  went  fishing  along  the  brooks.  They 
all  knew  him;  for  though  he  was  a  man  of 
the  cities  he  had  been  accustomed  to  come  to 
Fraternity  in  June  for  a  good  many  years. 
They  knew  him,  but  did  not  particularly  like 
him.  There  was  always  something  of  patron 
age  in  his  attitude,  and  they  knew  this  and 
resented  it. 

Nevertheless,  one  or  two  of  them  answered 
his  greeting.  For  the  rest,  they  studied  him 


38  EVERED 

with  an  acute  and  painful  curiosity.  There 
was  some  warrant  for  their  curiosity.  Semler, 
usually  an  immaculate  man,  was  hot  and  dusty 
and  disordered;  his  face  was  white;  his  eyes 
were  red  and  shifting,  and  there  was  an 
agonized  haste  in  his  bearing  which  he  was 
unable  to  hide. 

He  asked,  almost  as  his  foot  touched  ground, 
"  Any  one  here  got  a  car?" 

Two  or  three  of  the  men  had  come  in  auto 
mobiles;  and  one,  George  Tower,  answered, 
"Sure," 

Tower  was  a  middle-aged  man  of  the  sort 
that  remains  perpetually  young;  and  he  had 
recently  acquired  a  swift  and  powerful  road 
ster  of  which  he  was  mightily  proud.  It  was 
pride  in  this  car,  more  than  a  desire  to  help 
Dane  Semler,  that  prompted  his  answer. 

Semler  took  a  step  toward  him  and  lowered 
his  voice  a  little.  "I've  had  bad  news,"  he 
said.  "How  long  will  it  take  you  to  get  me 
to  town!" 

That  was  a  drive  of  ten  or  a  dozen  miles, 
over  roads  none  too  good. 

Tower  answered  promptly:  "Land  you  there 
in  twenty  minutes." 

"I'll  give  you  a  dollar  for   every  minute 


EVERED  39 

you  do  it  under  half  an  hour,"  said  Semler 
swiftly;  and  Tower  got  to  his  feet. 

"Where's  your  grip?"  he  asked. 

Semler  shook  his  head.  "I'm  having  that 
sent  on.  Can't  wait.  I'm  ready  to  start  now." 
He  looked  toward  the  men  on  the  steps.  "Some 
of  you  take  care  of  the  horse,"  he  said  quickly. 
"Garvey  will  send  for  it." 

Garvey  was  the  farmer  at  whose  house  Sem 
ler  had  been  staying.  Will  Bissell  took  the 
horse's  bridle  and  promised  to  stable  the  beast 
till  Garvey  should  come.  Tower  was  already 
in  his  car ;  Semler  jumped  in  beside  him.  They 
were  down  the  hill  and  across  the  bridge  in  a 
diminuendo  roar  of  noise  as  the  roadster,  muf 
fler  cut  out,  rocketed  away  toward  town.  Two 
or  three  of  the  men  got  to  their  feet  to  watch 
them  go,  sat  down  again  when  they  were 
out  of  sight. 

There  was  a  moment's  thoughtful  silence 
before  someone  said,  "What  do  you  make  o' 
that?  Semler  in  some  hurry,  I'd  say." 

Jean  Bubier  laughed  a  little.  "One  dam' 
hurry,"  he  agreed. 

"Like  something  was  after  him — or  he  was 
after  someone." 

Judd  the  mean  cackled   to  himself.     "By 


40  EVERED 

Gad,"  he  cried,  "111  bet  Evered's  got  on  to 
him.  I'll  bet  Evered's  after  that  man.  No 
wonder  he  run." 

The  other  men  looked  at  Judd,  and  they 
shifted  uncomfortably.  Will  Bissell  had  gone 
round  to  stable  the  horse ;  Lee  Motley  had  not 
yet  come  to  the  store,  nor  had  Jim  Saladine. 
Lacking  these  three  there  was  no  one  to  silence 
Judd,  and  the  man  might  have  gone  on  to 
uglier  speech. 

But  he  was  silenced,  and  silenced  by  so  in 
considerable  a  person  as  Zeke  Pitkin.  Zeke 
drove  up  just  then,  drove  hurriedly ;  and  they 
saw  before  he  stopped  his  horse  that  he  was 
shaking  with  excitement. 

He  cried  out,  " Hain't  you  heard?" 

Judd  answered,  " Heard  what!  What  ails 
you,  Zeke?" 

Pitkin  scarce  heard  him,  he  was  so  intent  on 
crying  out  his  dreadful  news.  It  came  in  a 
stumbling  burst  of  half  a  dozen  words. 

"Evered's  red  bull's  killed  Mis'  Evered," 
he  stammered. 


EVERED 'S  red  bull  was  a  notorious  and 
dangerous  figure  in  the  countryside.  It 
was  like  some  primordial  monster  of  the 
forests,  and  full  as  fierce  of  temper.  Evered 
had  bought  it  two  years  before,  and  two  men 
on  horseback,  with  ropes  about  the  creature's 
neck,  brought  it  from  town  to  his  farm. 
Evered  himself,  there  to  receive  it,  scowled 
at  their  precautions.  There  was  a  ring  in 
the  monstrous  beast's  nose;  and  to  this  ring 
Evered  snapped  a  six-foot  stick  of  ash,  sea 
soned  and  strong.  Holding  the  end  of  this 
stick  he  was  able  to  control  the  bull;  and  he 
set  himself  to  teach  it  fear.  That  he  suc 
ceeded  was  well  enough  attested.  The  bull 
did  fear  him,  and  with  reason..  Nevertheless, 
Evered  took  no  chances  with  the  brute,  and 
never  entered  its  stall  without  first  snapping 
his  ash  stick  fast  to  the  nose  ring.  Those  who 
watched  at  such  times  said  that  the  bull's  red 
eyes  burned  red  and  redder  so  long  as  Evered 
was  near ;  and  those  who  saw  were  apt  to  warn 

41 


42  EVERED 

the  man  to  take  care.  But  Evered  paid  no 
heed  to  their  warnings;  or  seemed  to  pay  no 
heed. 

The  bull  had  never  harmed  a  human  being, 
because  it  had  never  found  the  opportunity. 
Men  and  women  and  children  shunned  it,  kept 
well  away  from  its  stout-fenced  pasture,  its 
high-boarded  pen  and  its  stall.  The  creature 
was  forever  roaring  and  bellowing;  and  when 
the  air  was  still  its  clamor  carried  far  across 
the  countryside  and  frightened  children  and 
women,  and  made  even  men  pause  to  listen  and 
to  wonder  whether  Evered 's  bull  was  loose  at 
last.  Some  boys  used  to  come  and  take  a 
fearsome  joy  from  watching  the  brute;  and  at 
first  they  liked  to  tease  the  bull,  pelting  it  with 
sticks  and  stones.  Till  one  day  they  came — 
Jimmy  Hills,  and  Will  Motley,  and  Joe  Suter, 
and  two  or  three  besides — with  a  setter  pup  of 
Lee  Motley's  at  their  heels.  The  pup  watched 
their  game,  and  wished  to  take  a  hand,  so 
slipped  through  the  fence  to  nip  at  the  great 
bulPs  heels;  and  the  beast  wheeled  and  pinned 
the  dog  against  the  fence  with  its  head  like  a 
ram,  and  then  trod  the  pup  into  a  red  pudding 
in  the  soft  earth,  while  Will  Motley  shrieked 
with  rage  and  sorrow  and  fear. 


EVERED  43 

Evered  heard  them  that  day,  and  came  down 
with  a  whip  and  drove  them  away;  and  there 
after  a  boy  who  teased  the  bull  had  trouble 
on  his  hands  at  home.  And  the  tale  of  what 
the  brute  had  done  to  that  setter  pup  was  told 
and  retold  in  every  farmhouse  in  the  town. 

Evered,  even  while  he  mastered  the  bull  and 
held  it  slave,  took  pains  to  maintain  his  domi 
nance.  The  stall  which  housed  it  was  stout 
enough  to  hold  an  elephant;  the  board-walled 
pen  outside  the  stall  was  doubly  braced  with 
cedar  posts  set  five  feet  underground;  and 
even  the  half-mile  pasture  in  which,  now  and 
then,  he  allowed  the  brute  to  range,  had  a 
double  fence  of  barbed-wire  inside  and  stone 
wall  without. 

This  pasture  ran  along  the  road  and  bent  at 
right  angles  to  work  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
swamp.  It  was,  as  has  been  said,  albout  a  half 
mile  long ;  but  it  was  narrow,  never  more  than 
a  few  rods  wide.  It  formed  the  southern 
boundary  of  Evered 's  farm;  and  no  warning 
signs  were  needed  to  keep  trespassers  from 
crossing  this  area.  When  the  bull  was  loose 
here  it  sometimes  ranged  along  the  fence  that 
paralleled  the  road,  tossing  its  great  head  and 
snorting  and  muttering  at  people  who  passed 


44  EVERED 

by,  so  that  they  were  apt  to  hurry  their  pace 
and  leave  the  brute  behind. 

It  was  timid  Zeke  Pitkin,  on  his  way  to 
North  Fraternity,  who  saw  the  bull  break  its 
fence  on  the  afternoon  that  Mary  Evered  was 
killed.  Zeke  did  not  usually  take  the  road  past 
Evered 's  place,  because  he  did  not  like  to  pass 
under  the  eye  of  the  bull.  But  on  this  day  he 
was  in  some  haste;  and  he  thought  it  likely 
the  bull  would  be  stalled  and  out  of  sight,  and 
on  that  chance  took  the  short  hill  road  to  his 
destination. 

When  he  approached  Evered 's  farm  he  be 
gan  to  hear  the  bull  muttering  and  roaring  in 
some  growing  exasperation.  But  it  was  then 
too  late  to  turn  back  without  going  far  out  of 
his  way,  so  he  pressed  on  until  he  came  in 
sight  of  the  pasture  and  saw  the  beast,  head 
high,  tramping  up  and  down  along  the  fence 
on  the  side  away  from  the  road.  Zeke  was 
glad  the  bull  was  on  that  side,  and  hurried  his 
horse,  in  a  furtive  way,  hoping  the  bull  would 
not  mark  his  passing. 

When  he  came  up  to  where  the  brute  was  he 
saw  that  the  bull  was  watching  something  in 
Evered 's  woodlot,  beyond  the  pasture;  and 
Zeke  tried  to  see  what  it  was.  At  first  he 


EVERED  45 

could  not  see;  but  after  a  moment  a  dog 
yapped  there,  and  Zeke  caught  a  glimpse  of 
it;  a  half-bred  terrier  from  some  adjacent 
farm,  roving  the  woods. 

The  dog  yapped;  and  the  bull  roared;  and 
the  dog,  its  native  impudence  impelling  it, 
came  running  toward  the  pasture,  and  began 
to  dance  up  and  down,  just  beyond  the  bull's 
reach,  barking  in  a  particularly  shrill  and 
tantalizing  way. 

Zeke  yelled  to  the  dog  to  be  off;  but  the 
dog  took  his  yell  for  encouragement,  and 
barked  the  harder ;  and  then  Zeke  saw  a  thing 
which  made  him  turn  cold. 

He  saw  the  bull  swing  suddenly,  with  all  its 
weight,  against  the  high  wire  fence;  and  he 
saw  one  of  the  posts  sag  and  give  way,  and 
another  smashed  off  short.  So,  quicker  than 
it  takes  to  tell  it,  the  bull  was  floundering 
across  the  barbed  wires,  roaring  with  the  pain 
of  them,  and  Zeke  saw  it  top  the  wall,  tail 
high  and  head  down,  and  charge  the  little  dog. 

Zeke  might  have  tried  to  drive  the  bull  back 
into  its  pasture;  but  that  was  a  task  for  a 
bold  man,  and  Zeke  was  not  bold.  He  whipped 
his  horse  and  drove  on  to  warn  Evered;  and 
when  he  looked  back  from  the  top  of  the  hill 


46  EVERED 

the  bull  and  the  dog  had  disappeared  into  the 
scrub  growth  of  alder  and  hardwood  along  a 
little  run  that  led  down  to  the  swamp.  He 
whipped  his  horse  again,  and  turned  into  the 
road  that  led  to  Evered 's  farmhouse. 

When  he  got  to  the  farmhouse  there  was  no 
one  at  home;  and  after  he  had  convinced  him 
self  of  this  Zeke  drove  away  again,  planning 
to  stop  at  the  first  neighboring  farm  and  leave 
word  for  Evered.  But  after  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  or  so  he  met  the  butcher,  and  stopped 
him  and  told  him  that  the  bull  was  loose  in 
his  woodlot. 

Evered  asked  a  question  or  two;  but  Zeke's 
voluble  answers  made  him  impatient,  and  he 
left  the  other  and  hurried  on.  At  home  he 
stabled  his  horse,  got  his  ash  stave  with  the 
snap  on  the  end,  and  as  an  afterthought  went 
into  the  house  for  his  revolver.  He  had  no 
illusions  about  the  bull ;  he  knew  the  beast  was 
dangerous. 

While  he  was  in  the  house  he  marked  that 
his  wife  was  not  there,  and  wondered  where 
she  was,  and  called  to  her,  but  got  no  answer. 
He  knew  that  John  and  Euth  MacLure,  his 
wife's  sister,  were  in  the  orchard  on  the  other 
side  of  the  farm  from  the  pasture  and  wood- 


EVERED  47 

lot;  and  he  decided  that  his  wife  must  have 
gone  to  join  them  there.  So  with  the  revolver 
in  his  pocket  and  the  stave  in  his  hand,  Evered 
went  down  past  the  barn  and  through  the  bars 
into  the  woodlot.  Somewhere  in  the  thickets 
below  him  he  expected  to  find  the  bull.  He 
could  hear  nothing,  so  he  understood  that  the 
little  dog  which  had  caused  the  trouble  had 
either  fled  or  been  killed  by  the  beast.  He 
hoped  for  the  latter;  for  he  was  an  impatient 
man,  and  angered  at  the  whole  incident.  Also, 
the  sultry  heat  of  the  day  had  irked  him; 
irked  him  so  that  he  had  cursed  to  himself 
because  his  wife  was  not  at  home  when  he 
wished  to  speak  to  her. 

In  this  impatient  mood  he  began  to  work 
down  through  the  woodlot.  He  went  carefully, 
knowing  the  treacherous  temper  of  the  brute 
he  was  hunting.  He  passed  through  a  growth 
of  birches  along  a  little  run,  and  across  a 
rocky  knoll,  and  through  more  birches,  and  so 
came  out  upon  the  lower  shelf  of  his  farm,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house,  and  half 
way  down  to  the  borders  of  the  swamp. 

He  remembered,  when  he  had  come  thus  far, 
that  there  was  a  spring  in  the  hillside  a  little 
below  him,  with  two  or  three  old  trees  above 


48  EVERED 

it,  and  some  clean  grass  beside  it.  His  wife 
occasionally  came  here  in  the  afternoon,  when 
her  work  was  done,  to  sit  and  read  or  rest  or 
give  herself  to  her  thoughts.  Evered  knew  of 
this  habit  of  hers ;  but  till  this  moment  he  had 
forgotten  it.  The  spot  was  cool;  it  caught 
what  air  was  stirring.  He  had  a  sudden  con 
viction  that  she  might  be  there  now;  and  the 
idea  angered  him.  He  was  angry  with  her 
because  by  coming  down  here  she  had  put 
herself  in  a  dangerous  position.  He  was  angry 
with  her  because  he  was  worried  about  her 
safety.  This  was  a  familiar  reaction  of  the 
man's  irascible  temperament.  Two  years  be 
fore,  when  Mary  Evered  took  to  her  bed  for 
some  three  weeks'  time  with  what  was  near 
being  pneumonia,  Evered  had  been  irritable 
and  morose  and  sullen  until  she  was  on  her 
feet  again.  Unwilling  to  confess  his  concern 
for  her,  he  expressed  that  concern  by  harsh 
words  and  scowls  and  bitter  taunts,  till  his 
wife  wept  in  silent  misery.  His  wife  whom  he 
loved  wept  in  misery  because  of  him. 

Thus  it  was  now  with  him.  He  was  afraid 
she  had  come  to  the  spring;  he  was  afraid  the 
bull  would  come  upon  her  there;  and  because 


EVERED  49 

he  was  afraid  for  her  he  was  angry  with  her 
for  coming. 

He  went  forward  across  the  level  rocky 
ground,  eyes  and  ears  alert;  and  so  came 
presently  atop  a  little  rise  from  which  he 
could  look  down  to  the  spring.  And  at  what 
he  saw  the  man  stopped  stock-still,  and  all  the 
fires  of  Jhell  flared  up  in  his  heart  till  he  felt 
his  whole  body  burn  like  a  flaming  ember. 

His  wife  was  there;  she  was  sitting  on  a 
low  smooth  rock  a  little  at  one  side  of  the 
spring.  But  that  was  not  all;  she  was  not 
alone.  A  man  sat  below  her,  a  little  at  one 
side,  looking  up  at  her  and  talking  earnestly; 
and  Mary  Evered's  head  was  drooping  in 
thought  as  she  listened. 

Evered  knew  the  man.  The  man  was  Dane 
Semler.  Dane  Semler  and  his  wife,  together 
here,  talking  so  quietly. 

They  did  not  see  him.  Their  backs  were 
toward  him,  and  they  were  oblivious  and 
absorbed.  Evered  stood  still  for  a  moment; 
then  he  was  so  shaken  by  the  fury  of  his  own 
anger  that  he  could  not  stand,  and  he  dropped 
on  one  knee  and  knelt  there,  watching  them. 
And  the  blood  boiled  in  him,  and  the  pulse 
pounded  in  his  throat,  and  the  breath  choked 


50  EVERED 

in  his  lungs.  His  veins  swelled,  his  face  be 
came  purple.  One  watching  him  would  have 
been  appalled. 

Evered  was  in  that  moment  a  terrible  and 
dreadful  spectacle,  a  man  completely  given 
over  to  the  ugliest  of  angers,  to  the  black  and 
tempestuous  fury  of  jealousy. 

He  did  not  stop  to  wonder,  to  guess  the 
meaning  of  the  scene  before  him.  He  did  not 
wish  to  know  its  explanation.  If  he  had 
thought  soberly  he  must  have  known  there 
was  no  wrong  in  Mary  Evered.  But  he  did  not 
think  soberly ;  he  did  not  think  at  all.  He  gave 
himself  to  fury.  Accustomed  to  yield  to  anger 
as  a  man  yields  to  alcohol,  accustomed  to  de 
bauches  of  rage,  Evered  in  this  moment  loosed 
all  bounds  on  himself.  He  hated  his  wife  as 
it  is  possible  to  hate  only  those  whom  we  love ; 
he  hated  Dane  Semler  consumingly,  appall 
ingly.  He  was  drunk  with  it,  shaking  with 
it;  his  lips  were  so  hot  it  was  as  though  they 
smoked  with  rage. 

The  man  and  the  woman  below  him  did  not 
move.  He  could  catch,  through  the  pounding 
in  his  own  ears,  the  murmur  of  their  voices. 
Semler  spoke  quickly,  rapidly,  lifting  a  hand 
now  and  then  in  an  appealing  gesture;  the 


EVERED  51 

woman,  when  she  spoke  at  all,  raised  her  head 
a  little  to  look  at  the  man,  and  her  voice  was 
very  low.  Evered  did  not  hear  their  words; 
he  did  not  wish  to.  The  very  confidence  and 
ease  and  intimacy  of  their  bearing  damned 
them  unutterably  in  'his  eyes. 

He  was  like  a  figure  of  stone,  there  on  the 
knoll  just  above  them.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  they  could  remain  unconscious  of  his 
presence  there.  The  unleashed  demons  in  the 
man  seemed  to  cry  out,  they  were  almost 
audible. 

But  the  two  were  absorbed;  they  saw  noth 
ing  and  heard  nothing;  nothing  save  each 
other.  And  Evered  above  them,  a  concen 
trated  fury,  was  as  absorbed  and  oblivious  as 
they.  His  whole  being  was  so  focused  in 
attention  on  these  two  that  he  did  not  see  the 
great  red  bull  until  it  came  ponderously  round 
a  shoulder  of  the  hill,  not  thirty  paces  from 
where  the  man  and  woman  sat  together.  He 
did  not  see  it  then  until  they  turned  their 
heads  that  way,  until  they  came  swiftly  to 
their  feet,  the  man  with  a  cry,  the  woman  in  a 
proud  and  courageous  silence. 

The  bull  stood  still,  watching  them.  And  in 
the  black  soul  of  Evered  an  awful  triumph 


52  EVERED 

leaped  and  screamed.  His  ash  stave  was  be 
side  him,  his  revolver  was  beneath  his  hand. 
There  was  time  and  to  spare. 

He  flung  one  fist  high  and  brought  it  smash 
ing  down.  It  struck  a  rock  before  him  and 
crushed  skin  and  knuckles  till  the  blood  burst 
forth.  But  Evered  did  not  even  know.  There 
was  a,  dreadful  exultation  in  him. 

He  saw  the  bull's  head  drop,  saw  the  vast 
red  bulk  lunge  forward,  quick  as  light;  saw 
Semler  dodge  like  a  rabbit,  and  run,  shrieking, 
screaming  like  a  woman;  saw  Mary  Evered 
stand  proudly  still  as  still. 

In  the  last  moment  Evered  flung  himself  on 
the  ground;  he  hid  his  face  in  his  arms.  And 
the  world  rocked  and  reeled  round  him  so  that 
his  very  soul  was  shaken. 

Face  in  his  arms  there,  the  man  began 
presently  to  weep  like  a  little  child. 


VI 

A'TER  an  interval,  which  seemed  like  a 
very  long  time,  but  was  really  only  a 
matter  of  seconds,  Evered  got  to  his 
feet,  and  with  eyes  half  averted  started  down 
the  knoll  toward  the  spring. 

Yet  even  with  averted  eyes  he  was  able  to 
see  what  lay  before  him;  and  a  certain  awed 
wonder  fell  upon  the  man,  so  that  he  was 
shaken,  and  stopped  for  a  moment  still.  And 
there  were  tremorous  movements  about  his 
mouth  when  he  went  on. 

His  wife 's  body  lay  where  it  had  been  flung  by 
the  first  blunt  blow  of  the  red  bull's  awful  head. 
But — this  was  the  wonder  of  it — the  red  bull 
had  not  trampled  her.  The  beast  stood  above 
the  woman's  body  now,  still  and  steady;  and 
Evered  was  able  to  see  that  there  was  no  more 
murder  in  him.  He  had  charged  the  woman 
blindly;  but  it  was  now  as  though,  having 
struck  her,  he  knew  who  she  was  and  was 
sorrowing.  It  was  easy  to  imagine  an  almost 

53 


54  EYERED 

human  dejection  in  the  posture  of  the  huge 
beast. 

And  it  was  this  which  startled  and  awed 
Evered;  for  the  bull  had  always  been,  to  his 
eyes,  an  evil  and  a  murderous  force. 

A  few  feet  from  where  the  woman's  body 
lay  Evered  stopped  and  looked  at  the  bull; 
and  the  bull  stood  quite  still,  watching  Evered 
without  hostility.  Evered  found  it  hard  to 
understand. 

He  turned  to  one  side  and  knelt  beside  his 
wife's  body;  but  this  was  only  for  an  instant. 
He  saw  at  once  that  she  was  dead,  beyond 
chance  or  question.  There  was  no  blood  upon 
her,  no  agony  of  torn  flesh;  her  garments  were 
a  little  rumpled,  and  that  was  all.  The  mighty 
blow  of  the  bull  had  been  swift  enough,  and 
merciful.  She  lay  a  little  on  her  side,  and  her 
lips  were  twisted  in  a  little  smile,  not  un 
happily. 

Evered  at  this  time  was  not  conscious  of 
feeling  anything  at  all.  His  mind  was  clear 
enough;  his  perceptions  were  never  more 
acute.  But  his  emotions  seemed  to  be  in 
abeyance.  He  looked  upon  his  wife's  body 
and  felt  for  her  neither  the  awful  hate  of  the 
last  minutes  nor  the  torturing  love  of  the  years 


EVERED  55 

that  were  gone.  He  looked  simply  to  see  if 
she  were  dead;  and  she  was  dead.  So  he  took 
off  his  coat  and  made  of  it  a  pillow  for  her, 
and  laid  her  head  upon  it,  and  composed  her 
where  she  lay.  And  the  great  red  bull  stood 
by,  with  that  unbelievable  hint  of  sorrow  and 
regret  in  its  bearing;  stood  still  as  stone,  and 
watched  so  quietly. 

Evered  did  not  think  of  Semler;  he  had 
scarce  thought  of  the  man  at  all,  from  the 
beginning.  When  he  was  done  with  his  wife 
he  went  to  where  the  bull  stood,  and  snapped 
his  ash  stave  fast  to  the  creature's  nose.  The 
bull  made  no  move,  neither  backed  away  nor 
snorted  nor  jerked  aside  its  vast  head.  And 
Evered,  his  face  like  a  stone,  led  the  beast  to 
one  side  and  up  the  slope  and  through  the 
woodlot  toward  the  farm. 

As  he  approached  the  barn  he  turned  to  one 
side  and  came  to  the  boarded  pen  outside  the 
bull's  stall.  He  led  the  beast  inside  this  pen, 
loosed  the  stave  from  the  nose  ring,  and 
stepped  back  outside  the  gate.  Watching  for 
a  moment  he  saw  the  red  bull  walk  slowly 
across  the  pen  and  go  into  its  stall;  and  once 
inside  it  turned  round  and  stood  with  its  head 
in  the  doorway  of  the  stall,  watching  him. 


56  EVERED 

He  made  fast  the  gate,  then  passed  through 
the  barn  and  approached  the  kitchen  door. 
Euth,  his  wife's  sister,  came  to  the  door  to 
meet  him.  His  face  was  steady  as  a  rock; 
there  was  no  emotion  in  the  man.  Yet  there 
was  something  about  him  which  appalled  the 
girl. 

She  asked  huskily,  "Did  yon  get  the  bull  in? 
I  heard  him,  didn't  If" 

"Yes,"  said  Evered.    "He's  in." 

"I  heard  him  bellowing,"  she  explained. 
"And  then  I  saw  a  man  run  up  across  the  side 
field  to  the  road." 

"That  was  Semler,"  Evered  explained  cold 
ly.  "Dane  Semler.  He  was  afraid  of  the 
bull." 

"I  was  worried,"  the  girl  persisted  timidly, 
not  daring  to  say  what  was  in  her  mind.  "I 
was  worried — worried  about  Mary." 

"The  bull  killed  her,"  said  Evered;  and 
passed  her  and  went  into  the  kitchen. 

Euth  backed  against  the  wall  to  let  him  go 
by;  and  she  pressed  her  two  hands  to  her  lips 
in  a  desperate  frightened  way;  and  her  eyes 
were  wide  and  staring  with  horror.  She  stared 
at  the  man,  and  her  hands  held  back  the 
clamor  of  her  grief.  She  stared  at  him  as  at 


EVERED  57 

a  monstrons  thing,  while  Evered  washed  his 
hands  at  the  sink  and  dried  them  on  the  roller 
towel,  and  combed  his  hair  before  the  clean 
mirror  hanging  on  the  wall.  There  was  a 
dreadful  deliberation  about  his  movements. 

After  a  moment  the  girl  began  to  move ;  she 
went  by  little  sidewise  steps  as  far  as  the 
door,  and  then  she  leaped  out  into  the  barn 
yard,  and  the  screams  poured  from  her  in  a 
frenzy  of  grief  that  was  half  madness.  Evered 
turned  at  the  first  sound  and  watched  her  run, 
still  screaming,  across  the  barnyard  to  the 
fence ;  and  he  saw  her  fumble  fruitlessly  with 
the  topmost  bars,  and  at  last  scramble  awk 
wardly  over  the  fence  itself  in  her  stricken 
haste.  She  was  still  crying  out  terribly  as  she 
disappeared  from  his  sight  in  the  direction  of 
the  woodlot  and  the  spring. 

Evered  watching  her  said  to  himself  bit 
terly:  "She  knew  where  Mary  was;  knew 
where  to  look  for  her." 

He  flung  out  one  hand  in  a  weak  gesture  of 
despair  that  came  strangely  from  so  harshly 
strong  a  man ;  and  he  began  to  move  aimlessly 
about  the  kitchen,  not  knowing  what  he  did. 
He  took  a  drink  at  the  pump;  he  changed  his 
shoes  for  barnyard  boots ;  he  cut  tobacco  from 


58  EVERED 

a  plug  and  filled  his  pipe  and  forgot  to  light 
it;  he  stood  in  the  door,  the  cold  pipe  in  his 
teeth,  and  stared  out  across  his  farm;  and  his 
teeth  set  on  the  pipestem  till  it  cracked  and 
roused  him  from  his  own  thoughts. 

Then  he  heard  someone  running,  and  his  son, 
John  Evered,  came  from  the  direction  of  the 
orchard,  and  flung  a  quick  glance  at  his  father, 
and  another  into  the  kitchen  at  his  father's 
back. 

Evered  looked  at  him,  and  the  young  man, 
panting  from  his  run,  said,  "I  heard  Kuth  cry 
out.  What's  happened,  father?" 

Evered's  tight  lips  did  not  stir  for  a  mo 
ment;  then  he  took  the  pipe  in  his  hand,  and 
he  said  stiffly,  "The  red  bull  killed  Mary." 

They  were  accustomed  to  speak  of  Evered's 
second  wife  as  Mary  when  they  spoke  to 
gether.  John,  though  he  loved  her,  had  never 
called  her  mother.  He  loved  her  well;  but 
the  blood  tie  was  strong  in  him,  and  he  loved 
his  father  more.  At  his  father's  word  now  he 
stepped  nearer  the  older  man,  watching,  sens 
ing  something  of  the  agony  behind  Evered's 
simple  statement;  and  their  eyes  met  and  held 
for  a  little. 


EVERED  59 

Then  Evered  said,  "She  was  with  Dane 
Seinler  at  the  spring." 

The  gentler  lines  of  his  son's  face  slowly 
hardened  into  a  likeness  of  his  own.  The 
young  man  asked,  "Where's  Seniler?" 

"Kan  away,"  said  Evered. 

"I  had  wanted  a  word  with  him." 

Evered  laughed  shortly;  and  it  was  almost 
the  first  time  that  John  had  ever  seen  him 
laugh,  so  that  the  sight  was  shocking  and  ter 
rible.  Then  the  older  man  turned  back  into 
the  house. 

John  followed  him  and  asked  quickly,  "It 
was  at  the  spring?" 

"Yes.  The  bull  broke  down  his  fence  to  get 
at  a  dog." 

"We  must  bring  her  home,"  the  son  sug 
gested  quietly.  "Where  is  Euth!" 

"Down  there,"  Evered  told  him. 

John  turned  to  the  door  again.  "We'll 
bring  her  home,"  he  said;  and  Evered  saw  the 
young  man  go  swiftly  across  the  farmyard  and 
vault  the  fence  and  start  at  an  easy  run  in 
'the  direction  Euth  had  gone. 

Evered  stayed  in  the  house  alone  for  a 
moment;  and  when  he  could  bear  to  be  alone 
no  longer  he  went  out  into  the  farmyard.  As 


60  EVERED 

•he  did  so  Zeke  Pitkin  drove  in,  on  his  way 
back  from  that  errand  in  North  Fraternity. 

The  bleak  face  of  Evered  appalled  the  timid 
man  and  frightened  him;  and  he  stammered 
apologetically:  "W-wondered  if  you  got  the 
b-bull  in." 

"Yes,"  said  Evered.  "After  he  had  killed 
Mary." 

Zeke  stared  at  Evered  with  a  face  that  was 
a  mask  of  terror  for  a  moment,  and  Evered 
stood  still,  watching  him.  Then  Pitkin  gath 
ered  his  reins  clumsily,  and  clumsily  turned  his 
horse,  so  sharply  that  his  wagon  was  well-nigh 
overthrown  by  the  cramped  wheel.  When  it 
was  headed  for  the  road  he  lashed  out  with 
the  whip,  and  the  horse  leaped  forward. 
Evered  could  hear  it  galloping  out  to  the  main 
road,  and  then  to  the  left,  toward  Fraternity. 

"Town '11  know  in  half  an  hour,"  he  said 
half  to  himself. 

The  man  was  still  in  a  stupor,  his  emotions 
numb.  But  he  did  not  want  to  be  alone.  After 
a  moment  he  went  out  into  the  stable  and 
harnessed  the  horse  to  his  light  wagon  and 
started  down  a  wood  road  toward  the  spring. 
The  wagon  would  serve  to  bring  his  wife's 
body  home. 


EVERED  61 

The  vehicles  on  a  Fraternity  farm  are  there 
for  utility,  almost  without  exception.  Evered 
had  a  mowing  machine,  a  rake,  a  harrow,  a 
sledge,  a  single-seated  buggy  and  this  light 
wagon.  He  was  accustomed  to  take  the  wagon 
when  he  went  butchering;  and  it  had  served 
to  haul  the  carcasses  of  any  number  of  sheep 
or  calves  or  pigs  or  steers  from  farm  to  mar 
ket.  He  had  no  thought  that  he  was  piling 
horror  on  horror  in  taking  this  wagon  to  bring 
home  his  wife's  body. 

He  laid  a  double  armful  of  hay  in  the  bed 
of  the  wagon  before  he  started ;  and  he  himself 
walked  by  the  horse's  head,  easing  it  over  the 
rough  places.  The  wood  road  which  he  fol 
lowed  would  take  him  within  two  or  three  rods 
of  the  spring. 

John  Evered,  going  before  his  father,  had 
found  Euth  MacLure  passionately  sobbing 
above  the  body  of  her  sister.  And  at  first 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  draw  near  to 
her;  he  was  held  by  some  feeling  that  to  ap 
proach  her  would  be  sacrilege.  There  had  been 
such  a  love  between  the  sisters  as  is  not  often 
seen;  there  was  a  spiritual  intimacy  between 
them,  a  sympathy  of  mind  and  heart  akin  to 
that  sometimes  marked  between  twins.  John 


62  EVERED 

knew  this;  he  knew  all  that  Ruth's  grief  must 
be.  And  so  he  stood  still,  a  little  ways  off 
from  her,  and  waited  till  the  tempest  of  her 
grief  should  pass. 

"When  she  was  quieter  he  spoke  to  her ;  and 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  girl  whirled  to 
face  him,  still  kneeling;  and  there  were  no 
more  tears  in  her.  He  was  frightened  at  the 
stare  of  challenge  in  her  eyes.  He  said  quick 
ly,  "It's  me." 

She  shook  her  head  as  though  something 
blurred  her  sight.  "I  thought  it  was  your 
father,"  she  told  him,  and  there  was  a  bitte~ 
condemnation  in  her  tone. 

John  said,  "You  mustn't  blame  him." 

"He's  not  even  sorry,"  she  explained  softly, 
thoughtfully. 

"He  is,"  John  insisted.  "You  never  under 
stood  him.  He  loved  her  so." 

She  flung  her  head  to  one  side  impatiently 
and  got  to  her  feet,  brushing  at  her  eyes  with 
her  sleeve,  fumbling  with  her  hair,  composing 
her  countenance.  "It's  growing  dark,"  she 
said.  "We  must  take  her  home." 

He  nodded.  "I'll  carry  her,"  he  said;  and 
he  crossed  and  bent  above  the  dead  woman, 
and  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  silently.  The 


EVERED  63 

girl,  watching  him,  saw  in  the  still  strength  of 
his  features  «a  likeness  to  his  father  that  was 
suddenly  terrible  and  appalling. 

She  shuddered;  and  when  he  would  have 
lifted  her  sister's  body  she  cried  out  in  pas 
sionate  hysterial  protest,  "Don't  touch  her! 
Don't  touch  her!  You  shan't  touch  her,  John 
Evered!" 

John  looked  at  her  -slowly;  and  with  that 
rare  understanding  which  was  the  birthright 
of  the  man  he  said,  "You're  blaming  father." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "I  am." 

"It  was  never  his  fault,"  he  said. 

"He  kept  that  red,  killing  brute  about,"  she 
protested.  "Oh,  he  killed  her,  he  killed  Mary, 
he  killed  my  sister,  John." 

"That  is  not  fair,"  he  told  her. 

Before  she  could  answer  they  both  hushed 
to  the  sound  of  the  approaching  wagon;  and 
Evered  came  toward  them,  leading  the  horse, 
and  he  turned  it  and  backed  the  wagon  in 
below  the  spring. 

They  did  not  speak  to  him,  nor  he  to  them. 
But  when  he  was  ready  he  went  toward  the 
dead  woman  to  lift  her  into  the  wagon  bed; 
and  Euth  pushed  between  them  and  cried: 


64  EVERED 

"You  shan't  touch  her!  You  shan't  touch  her, 
ever!" 

Evered  looked  at  her  steadily;  and  after  a 
moment  he  said,  "Stand  to  one  side." 

The  girl  wished  to  oppose  him;  but  it  was  a 
tribute  to  his  strength  that  even  in  this  mo 
ment  the  sheer  will  of  the  man  overpowered 
her.  She  moved  aside;  and  Evered  lifted  his 
wife's  body  with  infinite  gentleness  and  dis 
posed  it  upon  the  fragrant  hay  in  the  wagon 
bed.  He  put  the  folded  coat  again  beneath  his 
wife's  head  as  a  pillow,  as  though  she  were 
only  sleeping. 

Still  with  no  word  to  them  he  took  the 
horse's  rein  and  started  to  lead  it  toward  the 
road  and  up  the  hill.  And  Euth  and  John, 
after  a  moment,  followed  a  little  behind. 

When  they  came  up  into  the  open,  out  of 
the  scattering  trees,  a  homing  crow  flying 
overhead  toward  its  roost  saw  them.  It  may 
have  been  that  the  wagon  roused  some  memory 
in  the  bird,  offered  it  some  promise.  At  any 
rate,  the  black  thing  circled  on  silent  wing, 
and  lighted  in  the  road  along  which  they  had 
come,  and  hopped  and  flopped  behind  them  as 
they  went  slowly  up  the  hill  toward  the  farm. 

Euth  saw  the  bird  and  shuddered;  and  John 


EVERED  65 

went  back  and  drove  it  into  flight;  but  it  took 
earth  again,  farther  behind  them. 

It  followed  them  insistently  up  the  hill;  and 
it  was  still  there,  a  dozen  rods  away,  as  they 
brought  Mary  Evered  home. 


vn 

WHEN  they  came  into  the  farmyard 
night  was  falling.  In  the  west  the 
sky  still  showed  bright  and  warm; 
and  against  this  brilliant  sky  the  hills  were 
purple  and  deeper  purple  in  the  distance.  In 
the  valleys  mists  were  rising  and  black  pools 
of  night  were  forming  beneath  these  mists; 
and  while  Evered  bore  his  wife's  body  into 
the  house  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  in  the  spare 
room,  these  pools  rose  and  rose  until  they 
topped  the  hills  and  overflowed  the  world  with 
darkness.  The  air  was  still  hot  and  heavy, 
as  it  had  been  all  day;  and  the  sultry  sky 
which  had  intensified  the  heat  of  the  sun  served 
now  to  hide  the  stars.  When  it  grew  dark  it 
was  as  dark  as  pitch.  The  blackness  seemed 
tangible,  as  though  a  man  might  catch  it  in 
his  hand. 

Euth  stayed  beside  her  sister ;  but  John  built 
a  fire  in  the  stove  while  Evered  sat  by  in  stony 
calm,  and  he  made  coffee  and  fried  salt  pork 


EVERED  67 

arid  boiled  potatoes.  There  were  cold  biscuits 
which  Mary  Evered  had  made  that  morning, 
and  doughnuts  from  the  crock  in  the  cellar. 
When  the  supper  was  ready  he  called  Ruth; 
and  she  came.  The  most  tragic  thing  about 
death  is  that  it  accomplishes  so  little.  The 
dropping  of  man  or  woman  into  the  pool  of 
the  infinite  is  no  more  than  the  dropping  of  a 
pebble  into  a  brook.  The  surface  of  the  pool 
is  as  calm,  a  little  after,  as  it  was  before. 
Thus,  now,  save  that  Mary  was  not  at  the 
table,  their  supping  together  was  as  it  had 
always  been. 

And  after  they  had  eaten  they  must  go  with 
the  familiarity  of  long  habit  about  their  even 
ing  chores.  Ruth  washed  the  dishes ;  John  and 
his  father  fed  the  beasts  and  milked  the  cows ; 
and  when  they  came  in  John  turned  the  sepa 
rator  while  Ruth  attended  to  the  milk  and  put 
away,  afterward,  the  skim  milk  and  the  cream. 

By  that  time  two  or  three  neighbors  had 
come  in,  having  heard  of  that  which  had  come 
to  pass.  There  was  genuine  sorrow  in  them, 
for  Mary  Evered  had  been  a  woman  to  be 
loved;  but  there  was  also  the  ugly  curiosity 
native  to  the  human  mind;  and  there  was 
speculation  in  each  eye  as  they  watched  Evered 


68  EVERED 

and  John  and  Kuth.  They  would  discuss,  for 
days  to  come,  the  bearing  of  each  one  of  the 
three  on  that  black  night. 

For  Evered,  the  man  was  starkly  silent, 
saying  no  word.  He  sat  by  the  table,  eyes 
before  him,  puffing  his  pipe.  Euth  stayed  by 
her  sister  as  though  some  instinct  of  protec 
tion  kept  her  there.  John  talked  with  those 
who  came,  told  them  a  little.  He  did  not  men 
tion  Semler's  part  in  the  tragedy.  He  said 
simply  that  the  bull  had  broken  loose;  that 
Mary  Evered  was  by  the  spring,  where  she 
liked  to  go ;  that  the  bull  came  upon  her  there. 

They  asked  morbidly  whether  she  was  tram 
pled  and  torn;  and  they  seemed  disappointed 
when  he  told  them  that  she  was  not,  that  even 
the  terrible  red  bull  had  seemed  appalled  at 
the  thing  which  he  had  done.  And  through  the 
evening  others  came  and  went,  so  that  he  had 
to  say  the  same  things  over  and  over;  and  al 
ways  Evered  sat  silently  by  the  table,  giving 
no  heed  when  any  man  spoke  to  him;  and  Euth, 
in  the  other  room,  kept  guard  above  the  body. 
The  women  went  in  there,  some  of  them;  but 
no  men  went  in. 

John  had  telephoned  to  Isaac  Gorfinkle, 
whose  business  it  was  to  prepare  poor  human 


EVERED  69 

clay  for  its  return  to  earth  again;  and  Gor- 
fmkle  came  about  midnight  and  put  all  save 
Buth  out  of  the  room  where  the  dead  woman 
lay.  Gorfinkle  was  a  little,  fussy  man ;  a  man 
who  knew  his  doleful  trade.  Before  day  he 
and  Ruth  had  done  what  needed  doing;  and 
Mary  Evered  lay  in  the  varnished  coffin  he 
had  brought.  Her  white  hair  and  the  sweet 
nobility  of  her  countenance,  serenely  lying 
there,  made  those  who  looked  forget  the  ugly 
splendor  of  Gorfinkle 's  wares. 

It  was  decided  that  she  should  be  buried  on 
the  second  day.  On  the  day  after  her  death 
many  people  came  to  the  farm;  and  some  came 
from  curiosity,  and  some  from  sympathy,  and 
some  with  an  uncertain  purpose  in  their  minds. 

These  were  the  selectmen  of  the  town — Lee 
Motley,  chairman;  and  Enoch  Thomas,  of 
North  Fraternity;  and  Old  Man  Varney. 
Motley,  a  sober  man  and  a  man  of  wisdom, 
was  of  Evered 's  own  generation;  Enoch 
Thomas  and  Varney  were  years  older.  Old 
Varney  had  a  son  past  thirty,  whom  to  this 
day  he  thrashed  with  an  ax  stave  when  the 
spirit  moved  him,  his  big  son  good-naturedly 
accepting  the  outrage. 

Thonias  and  Varney  came  to  demand  that 


70  EVERED 

Evered  kill  his  red  bull;  and  Motley  put  the 
case  for  them. 

"We've  talked  it  over,"  he  said.  "Seem's 
like  the  bull's  dangerous;  like  he  ought  to 
be  killed.  That's  what  we've — what  we've 
voted." 

Evered  turned  his  heavy  eyes  from  man  to 
man ;  and  Old  Varney  brandished  his  cane  and 
called  the  bull  a  murdering  beast,  and  bade 
Evered  take  his  rifle  and  do  the  thing  before 
their  eyes.  Evered 's  countenance  changed  no 
whit;  he  looked  from  Varney  to  Thomas,  who 
was  silent,  and  from  Thomas  to  Lee  Motley. 

"I'll  not  kill  the  bull,"  he  said. 

Before  Motley  could  speak,  Varney  burst 
into  abuse  and  insistent  demand;  and  Evered 
let  him  talk.  When  the  old  man  simmered  to 
silence  they  waited  for  Evered  to  answer,  but 
Evered  held  his  tongue  till  Lee  Motley  asked, 
"Come,  Evered,  what  do  you  say?" 

"What  I  have  said,"  Evered  told  them. 

"The  town '11  see,"  Old  Varney  shrilled, 
and  shook  his  fist  in  Evered 's  face.  "The 
town '11  see  whether  a  murdering  brute  like 
that  is  to  range  abroad.  If  you've  not  shame 

enough — your  own  wife,  man — your  own " 

he  wagged  his  head.  "The  town '11  see." 


EVERED  71 

Said  Evered:  "I'll  not  take  rifle  to  the  bull; 
but  if  any  man  comes  here  to  kill  the  beast, 
I'll  have  use  for  that  rifle  of  mine." 

Which  fanned  Varney  to  a  fresh  outbreak, 
till  Evered  flung  abruptly  toward  him,  and 
abruptly  said,  "Be  still." 

So  were  they  still;  and  Evered  looked  them 
in  the  eye,  man  by  man,  till  he  came  to  Mot 
ley;  and  then  he  said,  "Motley,  I  thought 
there  was  more  wisdom  in  you." 

"Aye,"  cried  Varney.  "He's  as  big  a  fool 
as  you." 

And  Motley  said,  "I  voted  against  this, 
Evered.  The  bull's  yours,  if  you're  a  mind 
to  kill  him.  I'm  not  for  making  you.  It's 
your  own  affair,  you  mind.  And — the  ways  of 
a  bull  are  the  ways  of  a  bull.  The  brute's  not 
overmuch  to  be  blamed." 

Evered  nodded  and  turned  his  back  on  them; 
and  after  a  time  they  went  away.  But  when 
Evered  went  into  the  house  he  met  Kuth,  and 
the  girl  stopped  him  and  asked  him  huskily, 
"You're  not  going  to  kill  that  red  beast?" 

Evered  hesitated;  then  he  said,  with  some 
thing  like  apology  in  his  tones,  "No,  Euth." 

She  began  to  tremble,  and  he  saw  that 
words  were  hot  on  her  lips;  and  he  lifted  one 


72  EVERED 

hand  in  a  placating  gesture.  She  turned  into 
the  other  room,  and  the  door  shut  harshly  at 
her  back.  Evered's  eyes  rested  on  the  door 
for  a  space,  a  curious  questioning  in  them,  a 
wistful  light  that  was  strange  to  see. 

All  that  day  Euth  was  still,  saying  little. 
No  word  passed  between  her  and  Evered,  and 
few  words  between  her  and  John.  But  that 
night,  when  they  were  alone,  John  spoke  to 
her  in  awkward  comfort  and  endearment. 

"Please,  Buthie,"  he  begged.  "You're 
breaking  yourself.  You'll  be  sick.  You  must 
not  be  so  hard." 

He  put  an  arm  about  her,  as  though  he 
would  have  kissed  her;  but  the  girl's  hands 
came  up  against  his  chest,  and  the  girl's  eyes 
met  his  in  a  fury  of  horror  and  loathing,  and 
she  flung  him  away. 

"Don't!  Don't!"  she  cried  in  a  voice  that 
was  like  a  scream.  "Don't  ever!  You — his 
son!" 

John,  inexpressibly  hurt,  yet  understanding, 
left  her  alone;  he  told  himself  she  was  not  to 
be  blamed,  with  the  agony  of  grief  still  scourg 
ing  her. 

One  of  the  neighbor  women  came  in  that 
night  to  sit  with  Euth;  and  Euth  slept  a  little 


EVERED  73 

through,  the  night.  John  was  early  abed;  he 
had  had  no  sleep  the  night  before,  and  he  was 
tired.  He  sank  fathoms  (Jeep  in  slumber;  a 
slumber  broken  by  fitful,  unhappy  dreams. 
His  own  grief  for  the  woman  who  had  been 
mother  to  him  had  been  stifled,  given  no 
chance  for  expression,  because  he  had  fought 
to  comfort  Euth  and  to  ease  his  father.  The 
reaction  swept  over  him  while  he  slept;  he 
rested  little. 

Evered,  about  nine  o'clock,  went  to  the  room 
he  and  his  wife  had  shared  for  so  many  years. 
He  had  not,  before  this,  been  in  the  room 
since  she  was  killed.  Some  reluctance  had 
held  him;  he  had  shunned  the  spot.  But  now 
he  was  glad  to  be  alone,  and  when  he  had  shut 
the  door  he  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  all 
about,  studying  each  familiar  object,  his  nerves 
reacting  to  faint  flicks  of  pain  at  the  memories 
(that  were  evoked. 

He  began  to  think  of  what  the  selectmen 
had  said,  of  their  urgency  that  he  should  kill 
the  bull.  And  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  and  remained  there,  not  moving,  for 
a  long  time.  Once  his  eye  fell  on  his  belt 
hanging  against  the  wall,  with  the  heavy  knife 
that  he  used  in  his  butchering  in  its  sheath. 


74  EVERED 

He  reached  out  and  took  down  the  belt  and 
drew  the  knife  forth  and  held  it  in  his  hands, 
the  same  knife  that  had  killed  drunken  Dave 
Eiggs  long  ago.  A  powerful  weapon,  it  would 
strike  a  blow  like  an  ax;  the  handle  of  bone, 
the  blade  heavy  and  keen  and  strong.  He 
balanced  it  between  his  fingers,  and  thought 
of  how  he  had  struck  it  into  the  neck  of  Zeke 
Pitkin's  bull,  and  how  the  bull  had  dropped 
in  midlife  and  never  stirred  more.  The  knife 
fascinated  him;  he  could  not  for  a  long  time 
take  his  eyes  away  from  it.  At  the  last  he 
reached  out  and  thrust  it  into  its  sheath  with 
something  like  a  shudder,  strange  to  see  in  so 
strong  a  man. 

Then  he  undressed  and  got  into  bed,  the 
bed  he  had  shared  with  Mary  Evered.  He 
had  blown  out  the  lamp;  the  room  was  dark. 
There  was  a  little  current  of  air  from  the 
open  window.  And  after  a  little  Evered  began 
to  be  as  lonely  as  a  boy  for  the  first  time  away 
from  home. 

There  is  in  every  man,  no  matter  how  stern 
his  exterior,  a  softer  side.  Sometimes  he 
hides  it  from  all  the  world;  more  often  his 
wife  gets  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  it.  There 
was  a  side  of  Evered  which  only  Mary  Evered 


EVERED  75 

had  known.  And  she  had  loved  it.  When 
they  had  come  to  bed  together  it  always 
seemed  to  her  that  Evered  was  somehow 
gentler,  kinder.  He  put  away  his  harshness, 
as  though  it  were  a  part  he  had  felt  called 
upon  to  play  before  men.  The  child  in  him, 
strong  in  most  men,  came  to  the  surface.  He 
was  never  a  man  overgiven  to  caresses,  but 
when  they  were  alone  at  night  together,  and 
he  was  weary,  he  would  sometimes  draw  her 
arm  beneath  his  head  as  a  pillow  or  take  her 
hand  and  lift  it  to  rest  upon  his  forehead, 
while  she  twined  her  fingers  gently  through 
his  hair. 

They  used  to  talk  together,  sometimes  far 
into  the  night ;  and  though  he  might  have  used 
her  bitterly  through  the  day,  with  caustic 
tongue  and  hard,  condemning  eye,  he  was 
never  unkind  in  these  moments  before  they 
slept.  A  man  the  world  outside  had  never 
seen.  It  was  these  nights  together  which  had 
made  life  bearable  for  Mary  Evered ;  and  they 
had  been  dear  to  Evered  too.  How  dread 
ful  and  appalling,  then,  was  this,  his  first 
night  alone. 

Her  shoulder  was  not  there  to  cradle  his 
sick  and  weary  head;  her  gentle  hand  was 


76  EVERED 

not  there  to  cool  his  brow.  When  he  flung 
an  arm  across  her  pillow,  where  she  used  to 
lie,  it  embraced  a  gulf  of  emptiness  that 
seemed  immeasurably  deep  and  terrible.  After 
a  little,  faint  perspiration  came  out  upon 
the  man's  forehead.  He  turned  on  his  right 
side,  in  the  posture  that  invited  sleep;  but  at 
first  sleep  would  not  come.  His  limbs  jerked 
and  twitched;  his  eyelids  would  not  close.  He 
stared  sightlessly  into  the  dark.  Outside  in 
the  night  there  were  faint  stirrings  and 
scratchings  and  movings  to  and  fro ;  and  each 
one  brought  him  more  wide  awake  than  the 
last.  He  got  up  and  closed  the  window  to 
shut  them  out,  and  it  seemed  to  him  the  closed 
room  was  filled  with  her  presence.  When  he 
lay  down  again  he  half  fancied  he  felt  her 
hand  upon  his  hair,  and  he  reached  his  own 
hand  up  to  clasp  and  hold  hers,  as  he  had 
sometimes  used  to  do;  but  his  groping  fingers 
found  nothing,  and  came  sickly  away  again. 
How  long  he  lay  awake  he  could  not  know. 
When  at  last  he  dropped  asleep  the  very  act 
of  surrender  to  sleep  seemed  to  fetch  him  wide 
awake  again.  Waking  thus  he  thought  that 
he  held  his  wife  in  his  arms;  he  had  often 
wakened  in  the  past  to  find  her  there.  But  as 


EVERED  77 

his  senses  cleared  he  found  that  the  thing 
which  he  held  so  tenderly  against  his  side  was 
only  the  pillow  on  which  her  head  was  used 
to  lie. 

The  man's  nerves  jangled  and  clashed;  and 
he  threw  the  pillow  desperately  away  from 
him  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  it.  He  sat 
up  in  bed;  and  his  pulses  pounded  and  beat 
till  they  hurt  him  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer. 
There  was  no  sleep  in  Evered. 

He  was  still  sitting  thus,  bolt  upright,  sick 
and  torn  and  weary,  when  the  gray  dawn 
crept  in  at  last  through  the  window  panes. 


VIII 

fTHJHE  day  of  Mary  Evered's  burial  was 
such  a  day  as  comes  most  often  imme 
diately  after  a  storm,  when  the  green 
of  the  trees  is  washed  to  such  a  tropical 
brightness  that  the  very  leaves  radiate  color 
and  the  air  is  filled  with  glancing  rays  of 
light.  There  were  white  clouds  in  the  blue 
sky;  clouds  not  dense  and  thick,  but  lightly 
frayed  and  torn  by  the  winds  of  the  upper 
reaches,  and  scudding  this  way  and  that  ac 
cording  to  the  current  which  had  grip  of  them. 
Now  and  then  these  gliding  clouds  obscured 
the  sun;  and  the  sudden  gloom  made  men  look 
skyward,  half  expecting  a  burst  of  rain.  But 
for  the  most  part  the  sun  shone  steadily 
enough;  and  there  was  an  indescribable  bril 
liance  in  the  light  with  which  it  bathed  the 
earth.  Along  the  borders  of  the  trees,  round 
the  gray  hulks  of  the  bowlders,  and  fringing 
the  white  blurs  of  the  houses  there  seemed 
to  shimmer  a  halo  of  colors  so  faint  and  fine 
they  could  be  sensed  but  not  seen  by  the  eye. 
The  trees  and  the  fields  were  an  unearthly 

78 


EVERED  79 

gaudy  green;  the  shadows  deep  amid  the 
branches  were  trembling,  changing  pools  of 
color.  A  day  fit  to  bewitch  the  eye,  with  a 
soft  cool  wind  stirring  everywhere. 

Evered  himself  was  early  about,  attending 
to  the  morning  chores.  Euth  MacLure  had 
fallen  asleep  toward  morning,  and  the  woman 
with  her  let  the  girl  rest.  John  woke  when 
he  heard  his  father  stirring;  and  it  was  he 
who  made  breakfast  ready,  when  he  had  done 
his  work  about  the  barn.  He  and  his  father 
ate  together,  and  Euth  did  not  join  them. 

Evered,  John  saw,  was  more  silent  than  his 
usual  silent  custom;  and  the  young  man  was 
not  surprised,  expecting  this.  John  himself, 
concerned  for  Euth,  and  wishing  he  might 
ease  the  agony  of  her  grief,  had  few  words 
to  say.  When  they  were  done  eating  he 
cleared  away  the  dishes  and  washed  them  and 
put  them  away;  and  then  he  swept  the  floor, 
not  because  it  needed  sweeping,  but  because 
he  could  not  bear  to  sit  idle,  doing  nothing  at 
all.  He  could  hear  the  women  stirring  in  the 
other  room;  and  once  he  heard  Euth's  voice. 

John's  grief  was  more  for  the  living  than 
for  the  dead ;  lie  had  loved  Mary  Evered  truly 
enough,  but  there  was  a  full  measure  of  philos- 


80  EVERED 

ophy  in  the  young  man.  She  was  dead;  and 
according  to  the  simple  trust  which  was  a  part 
of  him  she  was  happy.  But  Euth  was  un 
happy,  and  his  father  was  unhappy.  He 
wished  he  might  comfort  them. 

Evered  at  this  time  was  soberly  miserable; 
his  mind  was  still  numb,  his  emotions  were 
just  beginning  to  assert  themselves.  He  could 
not  think  clearly,  could  scarce  think  at  all. 
What  passed  for  thought  with  him  was  merely 
a  jumble  of  exclamations,  passionate  outcries, 
curses  and  laments.  Mary  was  dead;  and  he 
knew  that  dimly,  without  full  comprehension 
of  the  knowledge.  More  clearly  he  remem 
bered  Mary  and  Dane  Semler,  sitting  so  inti 
mately  side  by  side;  and  the  memory  was 
compounded  of  anguish  and  of  satisfaction — 
anguish  because  she  was  false,  satisfaction 
because  her  frailty  in  some  small  measure 
justified  the  monstrous  thing  he  had  permit 
ted,  and  in  permitting  had  done.  Evered  did 
not  seek  to  deceive  himself;  he  knew  that  he 
had  killed  Mary  Evered  as  truly  as  he  had 
killed  Dave  Eiggs  many  a  year  ago.  He  did 
not  put  the  knowledge  into  words;  neverthe 
less,  it  was  there,  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind, 
concrete  and  ever  insistent.  And  when  sor- 


EVERED  81 

row  and  remorse  began  to  prick  at  him  with 
little  pins  of  fire  he  told  himself,  over  and 
over,  that  she  had  been  frail,  and  so  got  eased 
of  the  worst  edge  of  pain. 

A  little  after  breakfast  people  began  to  come 
to  the  house.  Isaac  Gorfinkle  was  first  of 
them  all,  and  he  busied  himself  with  his  last 
ugly  preparations.  Later  the  minister  came — 
a  boy,  or  little  more;  fresh  from  theological 
school.  His  name  was  Mattice,  and  he  was 
as  prim  and  meticulous  as  the  traditional 
maiden  lady  who  is  so  seldom  found  in  life. 
He  tried  to  speak  unctuous  comfort  to  Evered, 
but  the  man's  scowl  withered  him;  he  turned 
to  John,  and  John  had  to  listen  to  him  with 
what  patience  could  be  mustered.  And  more 
men  came,  and  stood  in  groups  about  the  farm 
yard,  smoking,  spitting,  shaving  tiny  curls  of 
wood  from  splinters  of  pine;  and  their  women 
went  indoors  and  herded  in  the  front  room 
together,  and  whispered  and  sobbed  in  a  hiss 
ing  chorus  indescribably  horrible.  There  is 
no  creation  of  mankind  so  hideous  as  a  fu 
neral;  there  is  nothing  that  should  be  more 
beautiful.  The  hushed  voices,  the  damp  scent 
of  flowers,  the  stifling  closeness  of  tight-win 
dowed  rooms,  the  shuffling  of  feet,  the  raw 


82  EVERED 

snuffles  of  those  who  wept — these  sounds  filled 
the  house  and  came  out  through  the  open 
doors  to  the  men,  whispering  in  little  groups 
outside. 

Euth  MacLure  was  not  weeping;  nor 
Evered ;  nor  John.  And  the  mourning,  sob 
bing  women  kissed  Euth  and  called  her  brave ; 
and  they  whispered  to  each  other  that  Evered 
was  hard,  and  that  John  was  like  his  father. 
And  the  lugubrious  debauch  of  tears  went  on 
interminably,  as  though  Gorfmkle — whose  duty 
it  would  Be  to  give  the  word  when  the  time 
should  come — thought  these  preliminaries  were 
requisites  to  a  successful  funeral. 

But  at  last  it  was  impossible  to  wait  longer 
without  going  home  for  dinner,  and  Gorfinkle, 
who  was  accustomed  to  act  as  organist  011 
such  occasions,  took  his  seat,  pumped  the 
treadles  and  began  to  play.  Then  everyone 
crowded  into  the  front  room  or  stood  in  the 
hall;  and  a  woman  sang,  and  young  Mattice 
spoke  for  a  little  while,  dragging  forth  verse 
after  verse  of  sounding  phrase  which  rang 
nobly  even  in  his  shrill  and  uncertain  tones. 
More  singing,  more  tears.  A  blur  of  pictures 
photographed  themselves  on  Euth's  eyes; 
words  that  she  would  never  forget  struck  her 


EVERED  83 

ears  in  broken  phrases.  She  sat  still,  steady 
and  quiet.  But  her  nerves,  were  jangling; 
and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  she  must  have 
screamed  aloud  if  the  thing  had  not  ended 
when  it  did. 

Then  the  mile-long  drive  to  the  hilltop 
above  Fraternity,  with  its  iron  fence  round 
about,  and  the  white  stones  within;  and  there 
the  brief  and  solemn  words,  gentle  with  grief 
and  glorious  with  triumphant  hope,  were 
spoken  above  the  open  grave.  And  the  first 
clod  fell.  And  by  and  by  the  last;  and  those 
who  had  come  began  to  drift  away  to  their 
homes,  to  their  dinners,  to  the  round  of  their 
daily  lives. 

Evered  and  John  and  Kuth  drove  home 
together  in  their  light  buggy,  and  Ruth  sat 
on  John's  knee.  But  there  was  no  yielding 
in  her,  there  was  no  softness  about  the  girl. 
And  no  word  was  spoken  by  any  one  of  them 
upon  the  way. 

At  home,  alighting,  she  went  forthwith  into 
the  house;  and  John  put  the  horse  up,  while 
his  father  fed  the  pigs  and  the  red  bull  in  his 
stall.  When  they  were  done  Euth  called  them 
to  dinner,  appearing  for  an  instant  at  the 
kitchen  door.  John  reached  the  kitchen  before 


84  EVERED 

his  father;  and  the  pain  in  him  made  him 
speak  to  the  girl  before  Evered  came. 

"Buthie,"  he  said  softly.  "Please  don't 
be  too  unhappy." 

She  looked  at  him  with  steady  eyes,  a  little 
sorrowful.  "I'm  not  unhappy,  John,"  she 
said.  "Because  Mary  is  not  unhappy,  now. 
Don't  think  about  me." 

"I  can't  help  thinking  about  you,"  he  told 
her ;  and  she  knew  what  was  behind  his  words, 
and  shook  her  head. 

"You'll  have  to  help  it,"  she  said. 

"Why,  Euthie,"  he  protested,  "you  know 
how  I  feel  about  you." 

Her  eyes  shone  somberly.  "It's  no  good, 
John,"  she  answered.  "You're  too  much 
Evered.  I  can  see  clearer  now." 

They  had  not,  till  then,  marked  Evered  him 
self  in  the  doorway.  Euth  saw  him  and  fell 
silent;  and  Evered  asked  her  in  a  low  steady 
voice,  "You're  blaming  me?" 

"I'm  cursing  you,"  said  the  girl. 

Evered  held  still  for  a  little,  as  though  it 
were  hard  for  him  to  muster  words.  Then 
he  asked  huskily,  "What  was  my  fault?" 

She  flung  up  her  hand.  "Everything!"  she 
cried.  "I've  lived  here  with  you.  I've  seen 


EVERED  85 

you — breaking  Mary  by  inches,  and  nagging 
and  teasing  and  pestering  her.  Till  she  was 
sick  with  it.  And  she  kept  loving  you,  so  you 
could  hurt  her  more.  And  you  did.  You 
loved  to  hurt  her.  Hard  and  cruel  and  mean 
and  small — you'd  have  beat  her  as  you  do 
your  beasts,  if  you'd  dared.  Coward  too. 
Oh!" 

She  flung  away,  began  to  move  dishes  aim 
lessly  about  upon  the  table.  Evered  was 
gripped  by  a  desire  to  placate  her,  to  appease 
her ;  he  thought  of  Dane  Semler,  wished  to 
cry  out  that  accusation  against  his  wife.  But 
he  held  his  tongue.  He  had  seen  Semler  with 
Mary;  he  had  told  John;  Euth  knew  that 
Semler  had  been  upon  the  farm.  But  neither 
of  them  spoke  of  the  man,  then  or  thereafter. 
They  told  no  one;  and  though  Fraternity 
might  wonder  and  conjecture,  might  guess  at 
the  meaning  of  Semler 's  swift  flight  on  the 
day  of  the  tragedy,  the  town  would  never 
know. 

Evered  did  not  name  Semler  now;  and  it 
was  not  any  sense  of  shame  that  held  his 
tongue.  He  believed  wholly  in  that  which  his 
eyes  had  seen,  and  all  that  it  implied.  Him 
self  scarce  knew  why  he  did  not  speak;  and 


86  EVERED 

he  would  never  have  acknowledged  that  it 
was  desire  to  shield  his  wife,  even  from  her 
own  sister,  which  kept  him  silent.  After  a 
moment  he  sat  down  and  they  began  to  eat. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  meal  he  said  to  Euth 
uneasily:  "Feeling  so,  you'll  not  be  like  to 
stay  here  with  John  and  me." 

Euth  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  flash  of 
eyes;  she  was  silent,  thoughtfully.  She  had 
not  considered  this;  had  not  considered  what 
she  was  to  do.  But  instantly  she  knew. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  stay,"  she  told  Evered. 
"This  thing  isn't  done.  There's  more  to 
come.  It  must  be  so.  For  all  you  did  there's 
something  that  will  come  to  you.  I  want  to 
be  here,  to  see."  Her  hands  clenched  on  the 
table  edge.  "I  want  to  see  you  when  it  comes 
— see  you  squirm  and  crawl." 

There  was  such  certainty  in  her  tone  that 
Evered,  spite  of  himself,  was  shaken.  He  an 
swered  nothing;  and  the  girl  said  again,  "Yes; 
I  am  going  to  stay." 

The  red  bull  in  his  stall  bellowed  aloud;  a 
long,  rumbling,  terrible  blare  of  challenge.  It 
set  the  dishes  dancing  on  the  table  before 
them;  and  when  they  listened  they  could  hear 
the  monstrous  beast  snorting  in  his  stall. 


IX 

AFTER  the  death  of  Mary  Evered  the 
days  slipped  away,  and  June  passed  to 
July,  and  July  to  August.  Gardens 
prospered;  the  hay  ripened  in  the  fields;  sum 
mer  was  busy  with  the  land.  But  winter  is 
never  far  away  in  these  northern  hills;  and 
once  in  July  and  twice  in  August  the  men  of 
the  farms  awoke  in  early  morning  to  find  frost 
faintly  lying,  so  that  there  were  blackened 
leaves  in  the  gardens,  and  the  beans  had  once 
to  be  replanted.  Customary  hazards  of  their 
arduous  life. 

The  trout  left  quick  water  and  moved  into 
the  deep  pools;  and  a  careful  fisherman,  not 
scorning  the  humble  worm,  might  strip  a  pool 
if  he  were  murderously  inclined.  The  sum 
mer  was  dry;  and  as  the  brooks  fell  low  and 
lower  little  fingerlings  were  left  gasping  and 
flopping  upon  the  gravel  of  the  shallows  here 
and  there.  Nick  Westley,  the  game  warden 
for  the  district,  and  a  Fraternity  man,  went 
about  with  dip  net  and  pail,  bailing  penned 

87 


88  EVERED 

trout  from  tiny  shallows  and  carrying  them 
to  the  larger  pools  where  they  might  have  a 
chance  for  life.  Some  of  the  more  ardent  fish 
ermen  imitated  him;  and  some  took  advantage 
of  the  trout's  extremity  to  bring  home  catches 
they  could  never  have  made  in  normal  times. 

John  Evered  loved  fishing;  and  he  knew 
the  little  brook  along  the  hither  border  of 
Whitcher  Swamp,  below  the  farm,  as  well  as 
he  knew  his  own  hand.  But  this  year  had 
been  busy ;  he  found  no  opportunity  to  try  the 
stream  until  the  first  week  of  July.  One 
morning  then,  with  steel  rod  and  tiny  hooks, 
and  a  can  of  bait  at  his  belt,  he  struck  down 
through  the  woodlot,  past  the  spring  where 
Mary  had  been  Killed,  into  the  timber  below, 
and  so  came  to  the  wall  that  was  the  border 
of  his  father's  farm,  and  crossed  into  the 
swamp. 

Whitcher  Swamp  is  on  the  whole  no  pleasant 
place  for  a  stroll;  yet  it  has  its  charms  for 
the  wild  things,  and  for  this  reason  John 
loved  it.  Where  he  struck  the  marshy  ground 
it  was  relatively  easy  going;  and  he  took  a 
way  he  knew  and  came  to  the  brook  and  moved 
along  it  a  little  ways  to  a  certain  broad  and 
open  pool. 


EVERED  89 

He  thought  the  brook  was  lower  than  he 
had  ever  seen  it  at  this  season;  and  once  he 
knelt  and  felt  the  water,  and  found  it  warm. 
He  smiled  at  this  with  a  certain  gratification 
for  the  pool  he  sought  was  a  spring  hole,  water 
bubbling  up  through  pin  gravel  in  the  brook's 
very  bed,  and  the  trout  would  be  there  to 
dwell  in  that  cooler  stream.  When  he  came 
near  the  place,  screened  behind  alders  so  that 
he  could  not  be  seen,  he  uttered  an  exclama 
tion,  and  became  as  still  as  the  trees  about 
him  while  he  watched. 

There  were  trout  in  the  pool,  *a  very  swarm 
of  them,  lying  close  on  the  yellow  gravel  bot 
tom.  The  water,  clear  as  crystal,  was  no  more 
than  three  feet  deep;  and  he  could  see  them 
ever  so  plainly.  Big  fat  fish,  monsters,  if 
one  considered  the  brook  in  which  he  found 
them.  He  judged  them  all  to  be  over  nine 
inches,  several  above  a  foot,  one  perhaps  four 
teen  inches  long;  and  his  eyes  were  shining. 
They  were  so  utterly  beautiful,  every  line  of 
their  graceful  bodies,  and  every  dappled  spot 
upon  their  backs  and  sides  as  clear  as  though 
he  held  them  in  his  hands. 

He  rigged  line  and  hook,  nicked  a  long 
worm  upon  the  point,  and  without  so  much 


90  EVERED 

as  shaking  an  alder  branch  thrust  his  rod 
through  and  swung  the  baited  hook  and 
dropped  it  lightly  in  the  very  center  of  the 
pool,  full  fifteen  fee't  from  shore.  Then  he 
swung  upward  with  a  strong  steady  move 
ment,  for  he  had  seen  a  great  trout  strike  as 
the  worm  touched  the  water,  had  seen  the 
chewing  jaws  of  the  fish  mouthing  its  titbit, 
And  as  he  swung,  the  gleaming  body  came 
into  the  air,  through  an  arc  above  his  head, 
into  the  brush  behind  him,  where  he  dropped 
on  his  knees  beside  it  and  gave  it  merciful 
death  with  the  haft  of  his  heavy  knife,  and 
dropped  it  into  his  basket. 

Fly  fishermen  will  laugh  with  a  certain 
scorn;  or  they  will  call  John  Evered  a  mur 
derer.  Nevertheless,  it  is  none  so  easy  to 
take  trout  even  in  this  crude  fashion  of  his. 
A  shadow  on  the  water,  a  stirring  of  the 
bushes,  a  too-heavy  tread  along  the  bank — 
and  they  are  gone.  Nor  must  they  be  hurried. 
The  capture  of  one  fish  alarms  the  rest;  the 
capture  of  two  disturbs  them;  the  taking  of 
three  too  quickly  will  send  them  flying  every 
whither. 

John,  after  his  first  fish,  filled  and  lighted 
his  pipe,  then  caught  a  second;  and  after 


EVERED  91 

another  interval,  a  third — fat,  heavy  trout,  all 
of  them;  as  much  as  three  people  would  care 
to  eat;  and  John  was  not  minded  to  kill  more 
than  he  could  use.  He  covered  the  three  with 
wet  moss  in  his  basket,  and  then  he  crept 
back  through  the  alders  and  lay  for  a  long 
time  watching  the  trout  in  the  pool,  absorb 
ing  the  beauty  of  their  lines,  watching  how 
they  held  themselves  motionless  with  faintest 
quivers  of  fin,  watching  how  they  fed. 

A  twelve-inch  trout  rose  and  struck  at  a 
leaf  upon  the  pool's  surface,  and  John  told 
himself,  "They're  hungry."  He  laughed  a 
little,  and  got  an  inch-long  twig  and  tied  it  to 
the  end  of  his  line  in  place  of  hook.  This  he 
cast  out  upon  the  pool,  moving  it  to  and  fro 
erratically.  Presently  a  trout  swirled  up  and 
took  it  under,  and  spat  it  out  before  John 
could  twitch  the  fish  to  the  surface.  John 
laughed  aloud,  and  cast  again.  He  stayed 
there  for  a  long  hour  at  this  sport,  and  when 
the  trout  sulked  he  teased  them  with  bits 
of  leaf  or  grass.  Once  he  caught  a  cricket  and 
noosed  it  lightly  and  dropped  it  on  the  water. 
When  the  fish  took  it  down  John  waited  for 
an  instant,  then  tugged  and  swung  the  trout 


92  EVERED 

half  a  dozen  feet  into  the  air  before  he  could 
disgorge  the  bait. 

"Hungry  as  sin,"  John  told  himself  at  last; 
and  his  eyes  became  sober  as  he  considered 
thoughtfully.  There  were  other  men  about, 
as  good  fishermen  as  he,  and  not  half  so 
Scrupulous.  If  they  should  come  upon  this 
pool  on  such  a  day 

He  did  a  thing  that  might  seem  profana 
tion  to  the  fisherman  who  likes  a  goodly  bag. 
He  gathered  brush  and  threw  it  into  the  pool ; 
he  piled  it  end  to  end  and  over  and  over;  he 
found  two  small  pines;  dead  in  their  places 
among  their  older  brethren;  and  he  pushed 
them  from  their  rotting  roots  and  dragged 
them  to  the  brook  and  threw  them  in.  When 
he  was  done  the  pool  was  a  jungle,  a  wilder 
ness  of  stubs  and  branches ;  a  sure  haven  for 
trout,  a  spot  almost  impossible  to  fish  suc- 
fcessfully.  While  he  watched,  when  his  task 
was  finished,  he  saw  brown  darting  shadows 
in  the  stream  as  the  trout  shot  back  into  the 
covert  he  had  made;  and  he  smiled  with  a 
certain  satisfaction. 

"They'll  have  to  fish  for  them  now,"  he 
told  himself. 

He  decided  to  try  and  see  whether  a  man 


EVERED  93 

might  take  a  trout  from  the  pool  in  its  am 
bushed  state.  It  meant  an  hour  of  waiting,  a 
snagged  hook  or  two,  a  temper-trying  ordeal 
with  mosquitoes  and  flies.  But  in  the  end  he 
landed  another  fish,  and  was  content.  He 
went  back  through  the  swamp  and  up  to  the 
farm,  well  pleased. 

Moving  along  the  brook  he  saw  other  pools 
where  smaller  fish  were  lying;  and  that  night 
he  told  Euth  what  he  had  seen.  "You  can 
see  all  the  trout  you're  minded  to,  down  there 
now,"  he  said. 

The  girl  nodded  unsmilingly.  She  had  not 
yet  learned  to  laugh  again,  since  her  sister's 
death.  They  were  a  somber  household,  these 
three — Evered  steadily  silent,  the  girl  sober 
and  stern,  John  striving  in  his  awkward 
fashion  to  win  mirth  from  her  and  speech 
from  Evered. 

The  early  summer  was  to  pass  thus.  And 
what  was  in  Evered 's  mind  as  the  weeks 
dragged  by  no  man  could  surely  know.  His 
eye  was  as  hard  as  ever,  his  voice  as  harsh; 
yet  to  Euth  it  seemed  that  new  lines  were 
forming  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  hair,  that  had 
been  black  as  coal,  she  saw  one  afternoon  was 
streaked  with  gray.  Watching,  thereafter, 


94  EVERED 

she  marked  how  the  white  hairs  increased  in 
number.  Once  she  spoke  of  it  to  John,  con 
strainedly,  for  there  was  no  such  pleasant 
confidence  between  these  two  as  there  had 
been. 

John  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "he's  aging. 
He  loved  her,  Euth;  loved  her  hard." 

Euth  made  no  comment,  but  there  was  no 
yielding  in  her  eyes.  She  was  in  these  days 
implacable;  and  Evered  watched  her  now  and 
then  with  something  almost  pleading  in  his 
gaze.  He  began  to  pay  her  small  attentions, 
which  came  absurdly  from  the  man.  She  tried 
to  hate  him  for  them. 

Once  John  sought  to  comfort  his  father,  spoke 
to  him  gently  of  the  dead  woman ;  and  Evered 
cried  out,  as  though  to  assure  himself  as  well 
as  silence  John:  "She  was  tricking  me,  John! 
Leaving  me.  With  Semler,  that  very  day." 

He  would  not  let  John  reply,  silenced  him 
with  a  fierce  oath  and  flung  away.  It  might 
have  been  guessed  that  his  belief  in  his  wife's 
treachery  was  like  an  anchor  to  which 
Evered 's  racked  soul  clung;  as  though  he 
found  comfort  and  solace  in  the  ugly  thought, 
a  justifying  consolation. 


JOHN  went  no  more  to  the  brooks  that 
summer;  but  what  he  had  told  Euth  led 
her  that  way  more  than  once.  Westley, 
the  game  warden,  stopped  at  the  house  one  day, 
and  found  her  alone,  and  asked  her  whether 
John  was  fishing.  She  told  him  of  John's  one 
catch. 

" Swamp  Brook  is  full  of  trout, "  she  said; 
" penned  in  the  holes  and  the  shallows." 

Westley  nodded.  "It's  so  everywhere,"  he 
agreed.  "I'm  dipping  and  shifting  them.  Tell 
John  to  do  that  down  in  -the  swamp  if  he  can 
find  the  time." 

She  asked  how  it  should  be  done;  and  when 
Westley  had  gone  she  decided  that  she  would 
herself  go  down  and  try  the  trick  of  it  if  the 
drought  still  held. 

The  drought  held.  No  rain  came;  and  once 
in  early  August  she  spent  an  afternoon  along 
the  stream,  and  transported  scores  of  tiny  trout 
to  feeding  grounds  more  deep  and  more  secure. 

95 


96  EVERED 

Again  a  week  later;  and  still  again  as  the 
month  drew  to  a  close. 

It  was  on  this  third  occasion  that  the  girl 
came  upon  Darrin.  Working  along  the  brook 
with  dip  net  and  pail  she  had  marked  the 
footprints  of  a  man  in  the  soft  earth  here  and 
there.  The  swamp  was  still,  no  air  stirring, 
the  humming  of  insects  ringing  in  her  ears. 
A  certain  gloom  dwelt  in  these  woods  even 
on  the  brightest  day;  and  the  black  mold  bore 
countless  traces  and  tracks  of  the  animals  and 
the  small  vermin  which  haunted  the  place  at 
night.  Euth  might  have  been  forgiven  for 
feeling  a  certain  disquietude  at  sight  of  those 
man  tracks  in  the  wild;  but  she  had  no  such 
thought.  She  had  never  learned  to  be  afraid. 

She  came  upon  Darrin  at  last  with  an 
abruptness  that  startled  her.  The  soft  earth 
muffled  her  footsteps;  she  was  within  two  or 
three  rods  of  him  before  she  saw  him,  and 
even  then  the  man  had  not  heard  her.  He 
was  kneeling  by  the  brook  and  at  first  she 
thought  he  had  been  drinking  the  water.  Then 
she  saw  that  he  was  studying  something  there 
upon  the  ground;  and  a  moment  later  he  got 
up  and  turned  and  saw  her  standing  there. 
At  first  he  was  so  surprised  that  he  could  not 


EVERED  97 

speak,  and  they  were  still,  locking  at  each 
other.  The  girl,  bareheaded.  01  simple  waist 
and  heavy  short  skirt,  with  rubber  boots  upon 
her  feet  so  that  she  might  wade  at  will,  was 
worth  looking  at.  The  man  himself  was  no 
mean  figure — khaki  flannel  shirt,  knickerbock 
ers,  leather  putties  over  stout  waterproof 
shoes.  She  carried  pail  in  one  hand,  dip  net 
in  the  other;  and  she  saw  that  he  had  a  re 
volver  slung  in  one  hip,  a  camera  looped  over 
his  shoulder. 

He  said  at  last,  "Hello,  there  I"  And  Euth 
nodded  in  the  sober  fashion  that  was  become 
her  habit.  The  man  asked,  "What  have  you 
got?  Milk,  in  that  pail?  Is  this  your  pasture 
land?" 

"Trout,"  she  told  him;  and  he  came  to  see 
the  fish  in  a  close-packed  mass;  and  he  ex 
claimed  at  them,  and  watched  while  she  put 
them  into  the  stream  below  where  he  had 
been  kneeling.  He  asked  her  why  she  did  it, 
and  she  told  him.  At  the  same  time  she 
looked  toward  where  he  had  knelt,  wondering 
what  he  saw  there.  She  could  see  only  some 
deep  -  imprinted  moose  tracks ;  and  moose 
tracks  were  so  common  in  the  swamp  that  it 
was  not  worth  while  to  kneel  to  study  them. 


98  EVERED 

He  saw  her  glance,  and  said,  "I  was  looking 
at  those  tracks.  Moose,  aren't  they?" 

She  nodded.     "Yes." 

"They  told  me  there  were  moose  in  here," 
he  said.  "I  doubted  it,  though.  So  far  south 
as  this." 

"There  are  many  moose  in  the  swamp," 
she  declared. 

He  asked,  "Have  you  ever  seen  them?" 

She  smiled  a  little.  "Once  in  a  while.  A 
cow  moose  wintered  in  our  barn  two  years 
ago." 

He  slapped  his  thigh  lightly.  "Then  this  is 
the  place  I'm  looking  for,"  he  exclaimed. 

She  asked  softly,  "Why?"  She  was  inter 
ested  in  the  man.  He  was  not  like  John,  not 
like  anyone  whom  she  had  known ;  except,  per 
haps,  Dane  Semler.  A  man  of  the  city,  obvi 
ously.  "Why?"  she  asked. 

"I  want  to  get  some  pictures  of  them,"  he 
explained.  "Photographs.  In  their  natural 
surroundings.  Wild.  In  the  swamp." 

"John  took  a  snapshot  of  the  cow  that  win 
tered  with  us,"  she  said.  "I  guess  he'd  give 
you  one." 

The  man  laughed.     "I'd  like  it,"  he  told 


EVERED  99 

her;  "but  I  want  to  get  a  great  many."  He 
hesitated.  "Where  is  your  farm!" 

She  pointed  out  of  the  swamp  toward  the 
hill. 

"Near?"  he  asked. 

And  she  said,  "It's  right  over  the  swamp." 

"Listen,"  he  said  eagerly.  "My  name's 
Darrin — Fred  Darrin.  What's  yours?" 

"Euth  MacLure." 

"Why  you're  Evered's  sister-in-law,  aren't 
you?" 

She  nodded,  her  cheeks  paling  a  little. 
"Yes." 

"I  was  coming  to  see  Evered  to-night," 
he  said.  "I  want  to  board  at  the  farm  while 
I  work  on  these  pictures — that  is,  I  want  per 
mission  to  camp  down  here  by  the  swamp 
somewhere,  and  get  milk  and  eggs  and  things 
from  you.  Do  you  think  I  can?" 

"Camp?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes." 

She  looked  round  curiously,  as  though  she 
expected  to  see  his  equipment  there.  "Haven't 
you  a  tent?" 

He  laughed.  "No.  I've  a  tarp  for  a  shel 
ter;  and  I  can  cut  some  hemlock  boughs  and 
build  a  shack;  if  you'll  let  me  trespass." 


100  EVERED 

"You  could  sleep  in  the  barn  I  guess,"  she 
said.  "Or  maybe  in  the  house." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No  roof  for  mine. 
This  is  my  vacation,  you  understand.  I  can 
sleep  under  a  roof  at  home." 

"You'll  be  getting  wet  all  the  time." 

"I'll  dry  when  the  sun  comes  out." 

She  asked,  "Who's  going  to  cook  for  you!" 

"I'm  a  famous  cook,"  he  told  her. 

She  had  the  rooted  distrust  of  the  open  air 
which  is  common  among  the  people  of  the 
farms.  She  could  not  see  why  a  man  should 
sleep  on  the  ground  when  he  might  have  hay 
or  a  bed ;  and  she  could  not  believe  in  the  prac 
ticality  of  cooking  over  an  open  fire;  espe 
cially  when  there  was  a  stove  at  hand. 

"You'll  have  to  see  Mr.  Evered,"  she  said 
uneasily. 

So  it  happened  that  they  two  went  back 
through  the  swamp  together  and  up  the  hill; 
and  they  came  side  by  side  to  meet  Evered 
and  John  in  the  barnyard  by  the  kitchen  door. 

They  had  their  colloquy  there  in  the  open 
barnyard,  while  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun 
drew  lengthening  shadows  from  where  they 
stood.  Darrin  spoke  to  Evered.  John  went 
into  the  house  after  a  moment  and  built  a  fire 


EVERED  101 

for  Kuth;  and  then  he  came  out  again  while 
the  girl  went  about  the  business  of  supper. 

Darrin  was  a  good  talker;  and  Evered 's 
silence  made  him  seem  like  a  good  listener. 
When  John  came  out  he  was  able  to  tell  Darrin 
something  of  the  moose  in  the  swamp,  their 
haunts  and  their  habits.  Darrin  listened  as 
eagerly  as  he  had  talked.  He  told  them  at 
last  what  he  had  come  to  do;  he  explained 
how  by  trigger  strings  and  hidden  cameras 
and  flash-light  powders  he  hoped  to  capture 
the  images  of  the  shy  giants  of  the  forest. 
John  listened  with  shining  eyes.  The  project 
was  of  a  sort  to  appeal  to  him.  As  for 
Evered,  he  had  little  to  say,  smoked  stolidly, 
stared  out  across  his  fields.  The  sunlight  on 
his  hair  accentuated  the  white  streaks  in  it, 
and  John  looking  toward  him  once  thought 
he  had  never  seen  his  father  look  so  old. 

When  Darrin  put  forward  his  request  for 
permission  to  camp  in  the  woodlot  near  the 
swamp,  Evered  swung  his  heavy  head  round 
and  gave  the  other  man  his  whole  attention 
for  a  space.  It  was  John's  turn  for  silence 
now.  He  expected  Evered  to  refuse,  perhaps 
abusively.  Evered  had  never  liked  trespassers. 
He  said  they  scared  his  cows,  trampled  his 


102  EVERED 

hay,  stole  his  garden  stuff  or  his  apples.  But 
Evered  listened  now  with  a  certain  patience, 
watching  Darrin;  and  Darrin  with  a  nimble 
tongue  talked  on  and  made  explanations  and 
promises. 

In  the  end  Evered  asked,  "  Where  is  it  your 
mind  to  camp?" 

"I've  picked  no  place.  I'll  find  a  likely 
spot." 

"You  could  sleep  in  the  barn,"  said  Evered, 
as  Kuth  had  said  before  him;  and  Darrin 
laughed. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  explained,  "half 
the  sport  of  this  for  me  is  in  sleeping  out  of 
doors  on  the  ground.  I'm  on  vacation,  you 
know.  Other  men  like  hunting,  and  so  do  I; 
but  mine  is  a  somewhat  different  kind,  that's 
all.  I  won't  bother  you;  you'll  not  see  much 
of  me,  for  I'll  be  about  the  swamp  at  all  hours 
of  the  night,  and  I'll  sleep  a  good  deal  in  the 
day.  You'll  hardly  know  I'm  there.  Of 
course,  I  don't  want  to  urge  you  against  your 
will." 

Evered 's  lips  flickered  into  what  might  have 
passed  for  a  smile.  "I'm  not  often  moved 
against  my  will,"  he  said.  "But  I've  no  ob- 


EVERED  103 

jection  to  your  sleeping  in  my  ground.  If 
you  keep  out  of  the  uncut  hay." 

"I  will." 

"And  put  out  your  fires.  I  don't  want  to 
be  burned  up." 

Darrin  laughed.  "I'm  not  a  novice  at  this, 
Mr.  Evered,"  he  said.  "You'll  not  have  to 
kick  me  off." 

Evered  nodded;  and  John  said,  "You  want 
to  keep  out  of  the  bull's  pasture  too.  You'll 
know  it.  There's  a  high  wire  fence  round." 

Darrin  said  soberly,  "I've  heard  of  the  red 
bull." 

"He  killed  my  wife/'  said  Evered;  and 
there  was  something  so  stark  in  the  bald  state 
ment  that  it  shocked  and  silenced  them. 
Evered  himself  flushed  when  he  had  spoken, 
as  though  his  utterance  had  been  unconsid- 
ered,  had  burst  from  his  overfull  heart. 

"I  know,"  Darrin  told  him. 

John  said  after  a  moment's  silence,  "If 
there's  any  way  I  can  help — I  know  the 
swamp.  As  much  as  any  man.  And  I've 
seen  the  moose  in  there." 

There  was  a  certain  eagerness  in  his  voice; 
and  Darrin  said  readily,  "Of  course.  I'd 
like  it." 


104  EVERED 

He  said  he  would  tramp  to  town  and  come 
with  his  gear  next  morning.  John  offered  to 
drive  him  over,  but  he  shook  his  head.  As 
he  started  away  Euth  came  to  the  kitchen 
door,  and  he  looked  toward  her,  and  she  said 
hesitantly,  " Don't  you  want  to  stay  to 
supper ?" 

He  thanked  her,  shook  his  head.  Evered 
and  John  in  the  barnyard  watche^.  him  go; 
and  Evered  saw  Euth  leave  the  kitchen  door 
and  move  to  a  window  from  which  she  could 
see  him  go  up  the  lane  toward  the  main  road. 

Evered  asked  John:  "What  do  you  make 
of  him?" 

"I  like  him,"  said  John.  "I'm — glad  you 
let  him  stay." 

"Know  why  I  let  him  stay?" 

«  Why— no." 

"See  him  and  Euth  together?  See  her 
watching  him?" 

"I  didn't  notice." 

Evered 's  lips  twitched  in  the  nearest  ap 
proach  to  mirth  he  ever  permitted  himself. 
"Ought  to  have  better  eyes,  John;  if  you're 
minded  to  keep  hold  o'  Euth.  She  likes  him. 
If  I'd  swore  at  him,  shipped  him  off,  she'd 
have  been  all  on  his  side  from  the  start." 


EVERED  105 

John,  a  little  troubled,  shook  his  head. 
'  '  Ruth  ?s  all  right, ' '  he  said.  l '  Give  her  time. ' ' 

Evered  said,  that  wistful  note  in  his  voice 
plain  for  any  man  to  hear,  "I  don't  want  Ruth 
leaving  us.  So  I  let  Darrin  stay." 


XI 


DAEEIN  came  to  the  farm.  He  made 
his  camp  by  the  spring  where  Mary 
Evered  had  loved  to  sit,  and  where 
she  had  been  killed.  John  knew  this  at  the 
time,  was  on  the  spot  when  Darrin  built  his 
fireplace  in  a  bank  of  earth,  waist  high,  and 
watched  the  other  shape  hemlock  boughs  into 
a  rain-shedding  shelter. 

He  did  not  remonstrate;  but  he  did  say, 
"Shouldn't  think  you'd  want  to  sleep  here." 

Darrin  looked  at  him  curiously;  and  he 
laughed  a  little. 

"You  mean — the  red  bull?"  he  asked.  And 
when  John  nodded  he  said,  "Oh,  I'm  not 
afraid  of  ghosts.  The  world's  full  of  ghosts." 
There  was  a  sudden  hardness  in  his  eye.  "I'm 
a  sort  of  a  ghost  myself,  in  a  way." 

John  wondered  what  he  meant;  but  he  was 
not  given  to  much  questioning,  and  did  not 
ask.  Nevertheless,  Darrin 's  word  stayed 
hauntingly  in  his  mind. 

106 


EVERED  107 

He  told  Buth  where  Darrin  was  camping; 
and  the  girl  listened  thoughtfully,  but  made 
no  comment.  John  knew  that  Euth  was  ac 
customed  to  go  to  the  spring  now  and  then, 
as  her  sister  had  done.  He  wondered  whether 
she  would  go  there  now.  There  was  no  jeal 
ousy  in  John;  his  heart  was  not  built  for  it. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  a  deep  concern  for 
Euth,  deeper  than  he  had  any  way  of  express 
ing.  The  matter  worried  him  a  little. 

They  did  not  speak  of  Darrin 's  camping 
place  to  Evered,  and  Evered  asked  no  ques 
tions.  Darrin  came  to  the  house  occasionally 
for  supplies,  but  it  happened  that  he  did  not 
encounter  Evered  at  such  times.  He  was 
always  careful  to  ask  for  the  man,  to  leave 
some  word  of  greeting  for  him;  and  once  he 
bade  them  tell  Evered  to  come  down  and  see 
his  camp.  They  did  not  do  so.  Some  instinct, 
unspoken  and  unacknowledged,  impelled  both 
Euth  and  John  to  keep  Evered  and  Darrin 
apart.  Neither  was  conscious  of  this  feeling, 
yet  both  were  moved  by  it. 

John,  prompted  to  some  extent  by  kis 
father's  warning,  had  begun  in  an  awkward 
fashion  to  seek  to  please  Euth  and  to  win 
back  favor  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  himself  un- 


108  EVERED 

easy  and  at  a  loss  in  the  presence  of  Darrin, 
felt  himself  at  a  disadvantage  in  any  contest 
with  the  other.  John  was  a  man  of  the  coun 
try,  of  the  farm,  and  he  had  grace  to  know  it. 
Darrin  had  the  ease  of  one  who  has  rubbed 
shoulders  with  many  men  in  many  places;  he 
was  not  confused  in  Buth's  presence;  he  was 
rather  at  his  best  when  she  was  near,  while 
John  was  ill  at  ease  and  words  came  hard  to 
him.  Darrin  took  care  to  be  friendly  with 
them  both;  and  he  and  John  on  more  than 
one  night  drove  deep  into  the  swamp  together 
on  Damn's  quest.  John,  busy  about  the 
farm,  was  unable  to  join  Darrin  in  the  day 
time;  but  the  other  scoured  through  the 
marsh  for  tracks  and  traces,  and  then  enlisted 
John  to  help  him  move  cameras  into  position, 
lay  flash-powder  traps,  or  stalk  the  moose  at 
their  feeding  in  desperate  attempts  at  camera 
snap-shooting. 

Sometimes,  in  the  afternoons,  John  knew  that 
Euth  went  down  to  the  spring  and  talked  with 
Darrin.  Darrin  told  her  of  his  ventures  in 
the  swamp;  and  she  told  Darrin  in  her  turn 
the  story  of  the  tragedy  that  had  been  enacted 
here  by  the  spring  where  he  was  camping. 
John,  crossing  the  woodlot  on  some  errand, 


EVERED  109 

came  upon  them  there  one  afternoon,  and 
passed  by  on  the  knoll  above  them  without 
having  been  seen.  The  picture  they  made  re 
mained  with  him  and  troubled  him. 

When  Darrin  had  been  some  ten  days  on 
the  farm  and  September  was  coming  in  with 
a  full  moon  in  the  skies  it  happened  one  night 
that  Evered  drove  to  Fraternity  for  the  mail 
and  left  John  and  Euth  alone  together.  When 
she  had  done  with  the  dishes  she  came  out  to 
find  him  on  the  door-step,  smoking  in  the 
moonlight;  and  she  stood  above  him  for  a 
moment,  till  he  looked  up  at  her  with  some 
question  in  his  eyes. 

She  asked  then,  "Are  you  going  into  the 
swamp  with  Mr.  Darrin  to-night  ?" 

He  said,  "No.  He's  out  of  plates.  There's 
some  due  to-morrow;  and  he's  waiting." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  longer,  then  said 
swiftly,  as  though  anxious  to  be  rid  of  the 
words,  "Let's  go  down  and  see  him." 

If  John  was  hurt  or  sorry  he  made  no  sign. 
He  got  to  his  feet.  "Why,  all  right,"  he  said. 
"It's  bright.  We'll  not  need  a  lantern." 

As  they  moved  across  the  barnyard  to  the 
bars  and  entered  the  woodlot  the  girl  began 
to  talk,  in  a  swift  low  voice,  as  though  to 


110  EVERED 

cover  some  unadmitted  embarrassment.  A 
wiser  man  might  have  been  disturbed;  but 
John  was  not  analytical,  and  so  he  enjoyed  it. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  had  talked  together 
at  any  length  since  Mary  died.  It  was,  he 
thought,  like  the  old  happy  times.  He  felt 
warmed  and  comforted  and  happier  than  he 
had  been  for  many  weeks  past.  She  was  like 
the  old  Euth  again,  he  told  himself. 

Darrin  was  glad  to  see  them.  He  built  up 
his  fire  and  made  a  place  for  Euth  to  sit  upon 
his  blankets,  leaning  against  a  bowlder,  and 
offered  John  cigars.  The  man  knew  how  to 
play  host,  knew  how  to  be  interesting.  John 
saw  Euth  laugh  wholeheartedly  for  the  first 
time  in  months.  He  thought  she  was  never 
so  lovely  as  laughing. 

When  they  went  back  up  the  hill  together 
she  fell  silent  and  sober  again;  and  he  looked 
down  and  saw  her  eyes,  clear  in  the  moon 
light.  Abruptly,  without  knowing  what  he 
did,  he  put  his  arm  round  her;  and  for  an 
instant  she  seemed  to  yield  to  him,  so  that  he 
drew  her  toward  him  as  he  was  used  to  do. 
He  would  have  kissed  her. 

She  broke  away  and  cried  out:  "No,  no,  no! 
I  told  you  no,  John." 


EVERED  111 

He  said  gently,  "I  think  a  lot  of  yon,  Ruth." 

She  shook  her  head,  backing  away  from 
him;  and  he  heard  the  angry  note  creep  back 
into  her  voice.  "You  mustn't,  ever,"  she  told 
him.  "Oh,  can't  you  understand!" 

Some  hot  strain  in  the  man  came  to  the 
surface;  he  cried  with  an  eloquence  that  was 
strange  on  his  slow  lips,  "I  love  you.  That's 
all  I  understand.  I  always  will.  You've  got 
to  know  that  too.  You " 

She  said,  "Hush!  I  won't  listen.  You — 
you're  your  father  over.  He's  not  content  but 
he  master  everyone  and  every  thing;  master 
everyone  about  him.  Break  them.  Master 
his  beasts  and  his  wife.  You're  his  own  son. 
You're  an  Evered."  Her  hands  were  tight 
ening  into  fists  at  her  side.  "Oh,  you  would 

want  to  boss  me  the  way  he 1  won't,  I 

won't!  You  shan't — shan't  ever  do  it." 

"I'll  be  kind  to  you,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  softer  note  in  her  voice.  "John, 
John,"  she  told  him.  "I'm  sorry.  I  did  love 
you.  I  tried  to  shut  my  eyes.  I  tried  to  pre 
tend  that  Mary  was  happy  with  him.  You're 
like  him.  I  thought  I'd  be  happy  with  you. 
She  told  me  one  day  how  he  used'to  be.  It 
frightened  me,  because  he  was  like  you.  But 


112  EVERED 

I  did  love  yon,  John.  Till  Mary  died.  Then  I 
knew.  He'd  killed  her.  He  made  her  want 
to  die.  And  he  had  driven  that  great  bull  into 
a  killing  thing — by  the  way  he  treated  it. 

"Oh,  I've  seen  your  father  clear,  John.  I 
know  what  he  is.  .You're  like  him.  I  couldn't 
ever  love  you.'* 

He  said  in  a  hot  quick  tone — because  she 
was  very  lovely — that  she  would  love  him, 
must,  some  day;  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  told  him.  "You're 
trying  already  to  make  me  do  what  you  want. 
Oh,  John,  can't  you  Evereds  see  any  living 

thing  without  crushing  it?  Mr.  Darrin " 

She  caught  herself,  went  on.  "See  how  dif 
ferent  he  is.  He  goes  into  the  swamp,  and 
he  has  to  be  a  thousand  times  more  careful, 
more  crafty  than  you  when  you  hunt.  But 
you  come  home  with  a  bloody  ugly  thing 
across  your  shoulders;  and  he  comes  with  a 
lovely  picture,  that  will  always  be  beautiful, 
and  that  so  many  people  will  see.  He  outwits 
the  animals;  he  proves  himself  against  them. 
But  he  doesn't  kill  them  to  do  it,  John.  You — 
your  father Oh,  can't  you  ever  see?" 

His  thoughts  were  not  quick  enough  to  cope 
with  her;  but  he  said  awkwardly,  "I'm  not — 


EVERED  113 

always  killing  things.  I've  left  many  a  trout 
go  that  I  might  have  killed.  And  deer  too." 

" Because  it's  the  law,"  she  said  harshly. 
"But  it's  in  you  to  kill — crush  and  bruise  and 
destroy.  Don't  you  see  the  difference?  You 
don't  have  to  beat  a  thing,  a  beast,  to  make  it 
yield  to  you.  You  Evereds." 

"I'm  not  a  horse  beater,"  he  said. 

"It's  the  blood  of  you,"  she  told  him.  "You 
will  be." 

"There's  some  times,"  he  suggested,  "when 
you've  got  to  be  hard." 

"I've  heard  your  father  say  that  very 
thing." 

They  were  moving  slowly  homeward  now, 
speaking  brokenly,  with  longer  silences  be 
tween.  The  night  was  almost  as  bright  as 
day,  the  moon  in  midheavens  above  them. 
Ahead  the  barn  and  the  house  bulked  large, 
casting  dark  shadows  narrowly  along  their 
foundation  walls.  There  was  a  fragrance  of 
the  hayfields  in  the  air.  The  rake  itself  lay  a 
little  at  one  side  as  they  came  into  the  barn 
yard,  its  spindling  curved  tines  making  it 
look  not  unlike  a  spider  crouching  there.  The 
bars  rattled  when  John  lowered  them  for  her 
to  pass  through;  and  the  red  bull  in  the  barn 


114  EVERED 

heard  the  sound  and  snorted  sullenly  at  them. 

John  said  to  her,  "You'd  be  having  a  man 
handle  that  bull  by  kindness,  maybe." 

She  swung  about  and  said  quickly,  "I'd  be 
having  a  man  take  an  ax  and  chop  that  red 
bull  to  little  bits." 

He  stood  still  and  she  looked  up  at  him; 
and  after  an  instant  she  hotly  asked,  "Are 
you  laughing?  Why  are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

He  said  gently,  "You  that  were  so  strong 
against  any  killing  —  talking  so  of  the  red 
bull." 

She  cried  furiously,  "Oh,  you John 

Evered,  you!  I  hate  you!  I'll  always  hate 
you.  You  and  your  father — both  of  you. 
Don't  you  laugh  at  me!" 

A  little  frightened  at  the  storm  he  had 
evoked  he  touched  her  arm.  She  wrenched 
violently  away,  was  near  falling,  recovered 
herself.  "Don't  touch  me!"  she  bade  him. 

He  watched  her  run  into  the  house. 


xn 


ONE  day  in  the  first  week  of  September, 
a  day  when  there  was  a  touch  of  frost 
in  the  air,  and  a  hurrying  and  scurry 
ing  of  the  clouds  overhead  as  though  they 
would  escape  the  grip  of  coming  winter, 
Evered  took  down  his  double-bitted  ax  from  its 
place  in  the  woodshed  and  went  to  the  grind 
stone  and  worked  the  two  blades  to  razor  edge. 
John  was  in  the  orchard  picking  those  apples 
which  were  already  fit  for  harvesting.  Euth 
was  helping  him. 

There  was  not  much  of  the  fruit,  and 
Evered  had  said  to  them,  "I'll  go  down  into 
the  woodlot  and  get  out  some  wood.'' 

When  he  was  gone  Kuth  and  John  looked 
at  each  other;  and  John  asked,  "Does  he  know 
Darrin  is  there,  I  wonder?  Know  where  he 
tot" 

Euth  said,  "I  don't  know.  He  sees  more 
than  you  think.  Anyway,  it  won't  hurt  him 
to  know." 

Evered  shaped  the  ax  to  his  liking,  slung 
U5 


116  EVERED 

it  across  his  shoulder,  and  walked  down  the 
wood  road  till  he  came  to  a  growth  of  birch 
which  was  ready  for  the  ax.  The  trees  would 
be  felled  and  cut  into  lengths  where  they  lay, 
then  hauled  to  the  farm  and  piled  in  the  shed 
to  season  under  cover  for  a  full  twelve  months 
before  it  was  time  to  use  the  wood.  Evered's 
purpose  now  was  simply  to  cut  down  the  trees, 
leaving  the  later  processes  for  another  day. 

He  had  chosen  the  task  in  response  to  some 
inner  uneasiness  which  demanded  an  "outlet. 
The  man's  overflowing  energy  had  always 
been  his  master;  it  drove  him  now,  drove 
him  with  a  new  spur — the  spur  of  his  own 
thoughts.  He  could  never  escape  from  them; 
he  scarce  wished  to  escape,  for  he  was  never 
one  to  dodge  an  issue.  But  if  he  had  wished  to 
forget,  Fraternity  would  not  have  permitted 
it  The  men  of  the  town,  he  saw,  were  watch 
ing  him  with  furtive  eyes;  the  women  looked 
upon  him  spitefully.  He  knew  that  most 
people  thought  he  should  have  killed  the  red 
bull  before  this ;  but  Evered  would  not  kill  the 
bull,  partly  from  native  stubbornness,  partly 
from  an  unformed  feeling  that  he,  not  the 
bull,  was  actually  responsible.  He  was  grow 
ing  old  through  much  thought  upon  the  mat- 


EVERED  117 

ter ;  and  it  is  probable  that  only  his  own  honest 
certainty  of  his  wife 's  misdoing  kept  him  from 
going  mad.  He  slept  little.  His  nerves  tor 
tured  him. 

He  struck  the  ax  into  the  first  tree  with  a 
hot  energy  that  made  him  breathe  deep  with 
satisfaction.  He  sank  the  blade  on  one  side 
of  the  tree,  and  then  on  the  other,  and  the 
four-inch  birch  swayed  and  toppled  and  fell. 
The  man  went  furiously  to  the  next,  and  to 
the  next  thereafter.  The  sweat  began  to  bead 
his  forehead  and  his  pulses  began  to  pound. 

He  worked  at  a  relentless  pace  for  perhaps 
halt  an  hour,  drunk  with  his  own  labors.  At 
the  end  of  that  time,  pausing  to  draw  breath, 
he  knew  that  he  was  thirsty.  It  was  this 
which  first  brought  the  spring  to  his  mind, 
the  spring  where  his  wife  had  died. 

He  had  not  been  near  the  spot  since  the 
day  he  found  her  there.  The  avoidance  had 
been  instinctive  rather  than  conscious.  He 
hated  the  place  and  in  some  measure  he 
feared  it,  as  much  as  it  was  in  the  man  to  fear 
anything.  He  could  see  it  all  too  vividly 
without  bringing  the  actual  surroundings  be 
fore  his  eyes.  The  thought  of  it  tormented 
him.  And  when  his  thirst  made  him  remem- 


118  EVERED 

ber  the  spring  now  his  first  impulse  was  to 
avoid  it.  His  second — because  it  was  ever 
the  nature  of  the  man  to  meet  danger  or  mis 
fortune  or  unpleasantness  face  to  face — was 
to  go  to  the  place  and  drink  his  fill.  He  stuck 
his  ax  into  a  stump  and  started  down  the  hill. 
This  was  not  like  that  other  day  when  he 
had  gone  along  this  way.  That  day  his  wife 
had  been  killed  was  sultry  and  lowering  and 
oppressive;  there  was  death  in  the  very  air. 
To-day  was  bright,  crisp,  cool;  the  air  like 
wine,  the  earth  a  vivid  panorama  of  brilliant 
coloring,  the  sky  a  vast  blue  canvas  with  white 
clouds  limned  lightly  here  and  there.  A  day 
when  life  quickened  in  the  veins;  a  day  to 
make  a  man  sing  if  there  was  song  in  him. 

There  was  no  song  in  Evered;  nevertheless, 
he  felt  the  influence  of  the  glory  all  about 
him.  It  made  him,  somehow,  lonely;  and  this 
was  strange  in  a  man  so  used  to  loneliness. 
It  made  him  unhappy  and  a  little  sorry  for 
himself,  a  little  wistful.  He  wanted,  without 
knowing  it,  someone  to  give  him  comradeship 
and  sympathy  and  friendliness.  He  had  never 
realized  before  how  terribly  alone  he  was. 

His  feet  took  unconsciously  the  way  they 
bad  taken  on  that  other  day;  but  his  thoughts 


EVERED  119 

were  not  on  the  matter,  and  so  he  came  at 
last  to  the  knoll  above  the  spring  with  some 
thing  like  a  shock  of  surprise,  for  he  saw  a 
man  sitting  below;  and  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  this  man  was  Semler,  that 
Mary  sat  beside  Hm.  He  brushed  a  rough 
hand  across  his  eyes,  and  saw  that  what  he 
had  taken  for  his  wife's  figure  was  just  a  roll 
of  blanket  laid  across  a  rock;  and  he  saw  that 
the  man  was  not  Semler  but  Darrin. 

He  had  never  thought  of  the  possibility 
that  Darrin  might  have  camped  beside  the 
spring.  Yet  it  was  natural  enough.  This 
was  the  best  water  anywhere  along  the 
swamp's  edge.  A  man  might  drink  from  the 
brook,  but  not  with  satisfaction  in  a  summer 
of  such  drought  as  this  had  seen.  But  the 
spring  had  a  steady  flow  of  cool  clear  water 
in  the  driest  seasons.  This  was  the  best  place 
for  a  camp.  Darrin  was  here. 

Evered  stood  still,  looking  down  on  Darrin 's 
camp,  until  the  other  man  felt  his  eyes  and 
looked  up  and  saw  him. 

When  he  saw  Evered,  Darrin  got  to  his  feet 
and  laid  aside  his  book  and  called  cheerfully, 
"Come  aboard,  sir.  Time  you  paid  me  a 
call.'* 


120  EVERED 

Evered  hesitated;  then  he  went,  stumbling 
a  little,  down  to  where  Darrin  was.  "I'm 
getting  out  some  wood,"  he  said.  "I  just 
came  down  for  a  drink." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Darrin  in  a  friendly  way. 
"Fill  your  pipe." 

The  old  Evered,  the  normal  Evered  even 
now  would  have  shaken  his  head,  bent  for 
his  drink  from  the  spring  and  gone  back  to 
his  work.  But  Evered  was  in  want  of  com 
pany  this  day;  and  Darrin  had  a  cheerful 
voice,  a  comradely  eye.  Darrin  seemed  glad 
to  see  him.  Also  the  little  hollow  about  the 
spring  had  a  fascination  for  Evered.  Having 
come  to  the  spot  he  was  unwilling  to  leave  it, 
not  because  he  wished  to  stay,  but  because 
he  wished  to  go.  He  stayed  because  he 
dreaded  to  stay.  He  took  Darrin  ?s  cup  and 
dipped  it  in  the  spring  and  drank;  and  then 
at  Darrin 's  insistence  he  sat  down  against 
the  bowlder  and  whittled  a  fill  for  his  pipe 
and  set  it  going. 

Darrin  during  this  time  had  been  talking 
with  the  nimble  wit  which  was  characteristic 
of  the  man.  He  made  Evered  feel  more 
assured,  more  comfortable  than  he  had  felt 
for  a  long  time.  And  while  Darrin  talked 


EVERED  121 

Evered 's  slow  eyes  were  moving  all  about, 
marking  each  spot  in  the  tragedy  that  was 
forever  engraved  upon  his  mind — there  had 
sat  his  wife,  there  Semler,  yonder  stood  the 
bull — terribly  vivid,  terribly  real,  so  that  the 
sweat  burst  out  upon  his  forehead  again. 

Darrin,  watching,  asked,  " What's  wrong! 
You  look  troubled." 

And  Evered  hesitated,  then  said  huskily, 
"It's  the  first  time  I've  been  here." 

He  did  not  explain;  but  Darrin  understood. 
"Since  your  wife  was  killed?" 

"Yes." 

Darrin  nodded.  "It  was  here  by  the  spring, 
wasn't  it?" 

Evered  answered  slowly,  "Yes.  She  was — - 
lying  over  there  when  I  found  her."  He 
pointed  to  the  spot. 

Darrin  looked  that  way;  and  after  a  mo 
ment,  eyes  upon  the  curling  smoke  of  his  pipe, 
he  asked  casually,  "Where  was  Semler!" 

His  tone  was  easy,  mildly  interested  and 
that  was  all;  nevertheless,  his  word  came  to 
Evered  with  an  abrupt  and  startling  force. 
Semler?  He  had  told  no  one  save  John  that 
Semler  was  here  that  day;  he  knew  John 
would  never  have  told.  Euth  knew;  but  she 


122  EVERED 

too  was  close-mouthed.  Fraternity  did  not 
know.  Yet  Darrin  knew. 

"  Where  was  Semler?"  Darrin  had  asked, 
so  casually. 

And  Evered  cried,  "Semler?  Who  said  he 
was  here?" 

Darrin  looked  surprised.  "Why,  I  did  not 
know  it  was  a  secret.  He  told  me — himself." 

Evered  was  tense  and  still  where  he  sat. 
"He — you  know  him?" 

Darrin  laughed  a  little.  "I  wouldn't  say 
that.  I  don't  care  for  the  man.  I  met  him  a 
little  before  I  came  up  here,  and  told  him 
where  I  was  coming;  and  he  advised  me  not 
to  come.  Told  me  of  this — tragedy." 

"Told  you  he  was  here?" 

Darrin  nodded.  "Yes;  how  he  tried  to 
fight  off  the  bull." 

Evered  came  to  his  feet,  half  crouching. 
'  *  The  black  liar  and  coward  ran  like  a  rabbit, ' ' 
he  said  under  his  breath ;  and  his  face  was  an 
ugly  thing  to  see. 

Darrin  cried,  "I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean 
to — waken  old  sorrows.  It  doesn't  matter. 
Forget  it."  He  sought,  palpably,  to  change 
to  another  topic.  "Are  you  getting  in  your 
apples  yet?" 


EVERED  123 

Evered  would  not  be  put  off.  "See  here/' 
he  said.  "What  did  Dane  Semler  tell  you?" 

"I've  forgotten, "  said  Darrin.  He  smiled 
cheerfully.  "That  is  to  say,  I  mean  to  for 
get.  It's  not  my  affair.  Let's  not  talk  about 
it." 

Over  Evered  swept  then  one  of  those  im 
pulses  to  speech,  akin  to  the  impulses  of  con 
fession.  He  exclaimed  with  a  tragic  and 
miserable  note  in  his  voice.  "By  God,  if  I 
don't  talk  about  it  sometime  it'll  kill  me." 

Darrin  looked  up  at  him,  gently  offered; 
"I'll  listen,  then.  It  may  ease  you  to — tell 
the  story  over.  Go  ahead,  Mr.  Evered.  Sit 
down." 

Evered  did  not  sit  down.  But  the  story 
burst  from  him.  Something,  Darrin 's  sym 
pathy  or  the  anger  Darrin 's  reference  to  Sem 
ler  had  roused,  touched  hidden  springs  within 
the  man.  He  spoke  swiftly,  eagerly,  as  though 
with  a  pathetic  desire  to  justify  himself.  He 
moved  to  and  fro,  pointing,  illustrating. 

He  told  how  Zeke  Pitkin  had  brought  word 
that  the  red  bull  was  loose  in  the  woodlot.  "I 
stopped  at  the  house,"  he  said.  "There  was 
no  one  there;  and  that  scared  me.  When  I 
came  down  this  way  I  thought  of  this  spring. 


124  EVERED 

My  wife  used  to  like  to  come  here.  And  I 
was  scared,  Darrin.  I  loved  Mary  Evered, 
Darrin." 

He  caught  himself,  as  though  his  words 
sounded  strangely  even  in  his  own  ears.  When 
he  went  on  his  voice  was  harsh  and  hard. 

"I  came  to  the  knoll  up  there" — he  pointed 
to  the  spot — "and  saw  Mary  and  Semler  here, 
sitting  together,  Talking  together.  Damn  him! 
Like  sweethearts!"  The  red  floods  swept 
across  the  man's  face  as  the  tide  of  that  old 
rage  overwhelmed  him.  "Damn  Semler!"  he 
cried.  "Let  him  come  hereabouts  again!" 

He  went  on  after  a  moment:  "I  was  too 
late  to  do  anything  but  shout  to  them.  The 
bull  was  coming  at  them  from  over  there, 
head  down.  When  I  shouted  they  heard  me, 
and  forgot  each  other;  and  then  they  saw  the 
red  bull.  Semler  could  have  stopped  him  or 
turned  him  if  he'd  been  a  man.  If  I  had  been 
nearer  I  could  have  killed  the  beast  with  my 
hands,  in  time.  But  I  was  too  far  away;  and 
Semler  ran.  I  tell  you,  Darrin,  he  ran!  He 
turned  tail,  and  squawked,  and  ran  along  the 
hillside  there.  But  Mary  did  not  run.  She 
could  not;  or  she  wouldn't.  And  the  red  bull 
hit  her  here ;  and  tossed  her  there.  One  blow 


EVERED  125 

and  toss.  He  has  no  horns,  you'll  mind.  Sem- 
ler  running,  all  the  time.  Tell  him,  when  you 
go  back — tell  him  he  lied." 

He  was  abruptly  silent,  his  old  habit  of 
reticence  upon  him.  And  he  was  instantly 
sorry  that  he  had  spoken  at  all.  To  speak 
had  been  relief,  had  somehow  eased  him.  Yet 
who  was  Darrin?  Why  should  he  tell  this 
man? 

Darrin  said  gently,  "The  bull  did  not 
trample  her?" 

Evered  answered  curtly,  "No.  I  reached 
him." 

Darrin  nodded.    "You  could  handle  him?" 

"The  beast  knows  me,"  said  Evered. 

And  even  while  he  spoke  he  remembered 
how  the  great  bull,  as  though  regretting  that 
which  he  had  done,  had  stood  quietly  by  until 
he  was  led  away.  He  did  not  tell  Darrin  this ; 
there  were  no  more  words  in  him.  He  had 
spoken  too  much  already.  Darrin  was  watch 
ing  him  now,  he  saw;  and  it  seemed  to  Evered 
that  there  was  a  hard  and  hostile  light  of  cal 
culation  in  the  other's  eye. 

He  turned  away  his  head,  and  Darrin  asked, 
"How  came  she  here  with  Semler?" 

Evered  swung  toward  the  man  so  hotly  that 


126  EVERED 

for  a  moment  Darrin  was  afraid;  and  then 
the  older  man's  eyes  misted  and  his  lips 
twisted  weakly  and  he  brushed  them  with  the 
back  of  his  hand. 

He  did  not  answer  Darrin  at  all;  and  after 
a  moment  Darrin  said,  "  Forgive  me.  It  must 
hurt  you  to  remember;  to  look  round  here. 
You  must  see  the  whole  thing  over  again." 

Evered  stood  still  for  a  moment;  then  he 
said  abruptly:  "I've  sat  too  long.  I'll  be 
back  at  work." 

He  went  stiffly  up  the  knoll.  Darrin  called 
after  him,  "Come  down  again.  You  know  the 
way." 

Evered  did  not  turn,  he  made  no  reply. 
When  he  was  beyond  the  other's  sight  he 
stopped  once  and  looked  back,  and  his  eyes 
were  faintly  furtive.  He  muttered  something 
under  his  breath.  He  was  cursing  his  folly 
in  having  talked  with  Darrin. 

Back  at  his  work  Evered  was  uneasy;  but 
his  disquiet  would  have  been  increased  if  he 
could  have  seen  how  Darrin  busied  himself 
when  he  was  left  alone.  The  man  sat  still 
where  he  was  till  Evered  had  passed  out  of 
sight  above  the  knoll;  sat  still  with  thoughtful 
eyes,  studying  the  ground  about  him  and  con- 


EVERED  127 

sidering  the  things  which  Evered  had  said. 
And  once  while  he  sat  with  his  eyes  straight 
before  him,  thinking  on  Evered 's  words,  he 
said  to  himself:  "The  man  did  love  his  wife." 
And  again:  "There's  something  hurting  him." 

After  a  little  he  got  up  and  climbed  the 
knoll  cautiously,  till  he  could  look  in  the  di 
rection  Evered  had  taken.  Evered  was  not 
in  sight;  and  when  he  could  be  sure  of  this 
Darrin  went  along  the  shelf  above  the  spring, 
toward  the  wood  road  that  came  down  from 
the  farm.  At  the  road  he  turned  round  and 
retraced  his  steps,  trying  to  guess  the  path 
Evered  would  have  taken  to  come  in  sight  of 
the  spring  itself. 

When  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  knoll  he 
noted  the  spot,  and  cast  back  and  tried  again, 
and  still  again.  He  seemed  to  seek  the  far 
thest  spot  from  which  the  spring  was  visible. 
When  he  had  chosen  this  spot  he  stood  still, 
surveying  the  land  below,  picturing  to  him 
self  the  tragedy  that  had  been  enacted  there. 

He  seemed  to  come  to  some  conclusion  in 
the  end,  for  he  paced  with  careful  steps  the 
distance  from  where  he  stood  to  the  rock 
where  Mary  Evered  had  been  sitting.  From 
that  spot  again  he  paced  the  distance  to  the 


128  EVERED 

alder  growth  through  which  the  bull  had  come. 
Beturning,  eyes  thoughtful,  he  took  pencil  and 
paper  and  plotted  the  scene  round  him,  and 
set  dots  upon  it  to  mark  where  Evered  must 
have  stood,  and  where  Mary  and  Semler  had 
sat,  and  the  way  by  which  the  bull  had  come. 

The  man  sat  for  a  long  hour  that  afternoon 
with  this  rude  map  before  him,  considering 
it;  and  he  set  down  distances  upon  it,  and 
marked  the  trees.  Once  he  took  pebbles  and 
moved  them  upon  his  map  as  the  bull  and 
Semler  and  Evered  must  have  moved  upon 
this  ground. 

In  the  end,  indecision  in  his  eyes,  he  folded 
the  paper  and  put  it  carefully  into  his  pocket. 
Then  he  made  a  little  cooking  fire  and  pre 
pared  his  supper  and  ate  it.  When  he  had 
cleaned  up  his  camp  he  put  on  coat  and  cap 
and  started  along  the  hillside  below  the  bull 
pasture  to  the  road  that  led  toward  Fraternity. 

This  was  not  unusual  with  Darrin.  He  was 
accustomed  to  go  to  the  village  three  or  four 
times  a  week  for  his  mail  or  to  sit  round  the 
stove  in  Will  Bissell's  store  and  listen  to  the 
talk  of  the  country.  He  had  got  some  profit 
from  this:  Jim  Saladine,  for  example,  told 
him  one  night  of  a  fox  den,  and  took  him  next 


EVERED  129 

day  to  the  spot;  and  by  a  week's  patience 
Darrin  had  been  able  to  get  good  pictures  of 
the  little  foxes  at  their  play.  And  Jean  Bu- 
bier  had  taken  him  up  to  the  head  of  the  pond 
to  see  a  cow  moose  pasturing  with  Jean's 
own  cows.  Besides  these  tangible  pieces  of 
fortune  he  haci  acquired  a  fund  of  tales  of  the 
woods.  He  liked  the  talk  about  the  stove,  and 
took  his  own  share  in  it  so  modestly  that  the 
men  liked  him. 

Once  or  twice  during  his  stay  in  the  town 
there  had  been  talk  of  Evered ;  and  Darrin  had 
led  them  to  tell  the  man's  deeds.  Great  store 
of  these  tales,  for  Evered 's  daily  life  had  an 
epic  quality  about  it.  From  the  murdering 
red  bull  the  stories  went  back  and  back  to 
that  old  matter  of  the  knife  and  Dave  Riggs, 
now  years  agone.  Telling  this  story  Lee  Mot 
ley  told  Darrin  one  night  that  it  had  made  a 
change  in  Evered. 

Darrin  had  asked,  "What  did  he  do?" 
And  Motley  said:  "First  off,  he  didn't 
seem  bothered  much.  But  it  changed  him. 
He'd  been  wild  and  strong  and  hard  before, 
but  there  was  some  laughing  in  him.  I've 
.always  figured  he  took  the  thing  hard.  I've 
not  seen  the  man  laugh,  right  out,  since  then." 


130  EVERED 

Darrin  said,  "You  can't  blame  him.  It's 
no  joke  to  kill  a  man." 

Motley  nodded  his  agreement.  "It  made 
a  big  change  in  Evered,"  he  repeated. 

Darrin 's  interest  in  Evered  had  not  been 
sufficiently  marked  to  attract  attention,  for 
Evered  was  a  figure  of  interest  to  all  the 
countryside.  Furthermore,  there  was  talk 
that  Darrin  and  Ruth  MacLure  liked  each 
other  well;  and  the  town  thought  it  natural 
that  Darrin  should  be  curious  as  to  the  man 
who  might  be  his  brother-in-law.  Everyone 
knew  that  Ruth  and  John  Evered  had  been 
more  than  friends.  There  was  a  friendly  and 
curious  interest  in  what  looked  like  a  contest 
between  Darrin  and  John. 

This  night  at  Will's  store  Darrin  had  little 
to  say.  He  bought  paper  and  envelopes  from 
Will  and  wrote  two  letters  at  the  desk  in 
Will's  office;  and  he  mailed  them,  with  a  spe 
cial-delivery  stamp  upon  each  one.  That  was 
a  thing  not  often  done  in  Fraternity;  and 
Will  noticed  the  addresses  upon  the  letters. 
To  Boston  men,  both  of  them. 

Afterward,  Darrin  sat  about  the  store  for 
a  while,  and  then  set  off  along  the  road 
toward  ^Evered 's  farm.  Zeke  Pitkin  gave  him 


EVERED,  131 

a  lift  for  a  way;  and  Darrin  remembered  that 
Evered  had  named  this  man,  and  he  said  to 
Zeke:  "You  saw  Evered 's  bull  break  out, 
that  day  the  beast  killed  Mary  Evered,  didn't 
your' 

Zeke  said  yes ;  and  he  told  the  tale,  coloring 
it  with  the  glamor  of  tragedy  which  it  would 
always  have  in  his  eyes.  And  he  told  Darrin 
— though  Darrin  had  heard  this  more  than 
once  before — how  Evered  had  killed  his, 
Zeke's,  bull  with  a  knife  thrust  in  the  neck,  a 
day  or  two  before  the  tragedy.  "That  same 
heavy  knife  of  his,"  he  said.  "The  one  he 
killed  Dave  Riggs  with." 

Darrin  asked,  "Still  uses  it — to  butcher 
with?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Zeke.  "IVe  seen  him 
stick  more'n  one  pig  with  that  old  knife  in 
the  last  ten  year." 

Darrin  laughed  a  little  harshly.  "Not  very 
sentimental,  is  he?" 

"There  ain't  a  human  feeling  in  the  man," 
Pitkin  declared. 

When  Zeke  stopped  to  let  Darrin  down  at 
the  fork  of  the  road  Darrin  asked  another 
question.  "Funny  that  Semler  should  skip 
out  so  sudden  that  day,  wasn't  it?" 


132  EVERED 

"You  bet  it  uz  funny, "  Zeke  agreed.  "I've 
allus  said  it  was." 

"Did  you  see  him  the  day  he  left!" 

Pitkin  shook  his  head.  "Huh-uh.  I  was 
busy  all  day,  and  over  in  North  Fraternity 
in  the  aft'noon.  Got  to  the  store  right  after 
he  lit  out." 

Darrin  walked  to  his  camp,  lighting  his  steps 
with  an  electric  torch,  and  made  a  little  fire 
for  cheerfulness'  sake,  and  wrapped  in  his 
blankets  for  sleep.  He  had  set  a  camera  in 
the  swamp  that  day,  with  a  string  attached 
to  the  shutter  in  a  fashion  that  should  give 
results  if  a  moose  came  by.  He  wondered 
whether  luck  would  be  with  him.  His  thoughts 
as  sleep  crept  on  him  shifted  back  to  Evered 
again.  A  puzzle  there — a  question  of  char 
acter,  of  reaction  to  emotional  stimulus.  He 
asked  himself:  "Now  if  I  were  an  emotional, 
hot-tempered  man  and  came  upon  my  wife 
with  another  man,  and  saw  her  in  swift  peril 
of  her  life — what  would  I  do?" 

He  was  still  wondering,  still  questioning, 
still  trying  to  put  himself  in  Evered 's  shoes 
when  at  last  he  dropped  asleep. 


xin 

DAEEIN  and  Kuth  had  come  to  that 
point  in  friendship  where  they  could 
sit  silently  together,  each  busy  with  his 
or  her  own  thoughts,  without  embarrassment. 
The  girl  liked  to  come  down  the  hill  of  an 
afternoon  for  an  hour  with  the  man;  and 
sometimes  he  read  to  her  from  one  of  the 
books  of  which  he  had  a  store.  And  some 
times  he  showed  her  the  pictures  he  had  made 
— strange  glimpses  of  the  life  of  the  swamp. 
His  camera  trap  caught  curious  scenes.  Now 
and  then  a  deer,  occasionally  a  moose,  once  a 
wildcat  screeching  in  the  night.  And  again 
they  had  to  look  closely  to  see  wliat  it  was 
that  had  tugged  the  trigger  string;  and  some 
times  it  was  a  rabbit,  and  sometimes  it  was  a 
mink;  and  at  other  times  it  was  nothing  at 
all  that  they  could  discover  in  the  finished 
photograph.  Once  a  great  owl  dropped  on 
some  prey  upon  the  ground  and  touched  the 
string;  and  the  plate  caught  him,  wings  fly 
ing,  talons  reaching — a  picture  of  the  wild 
things  that  prey. 

133 


134  EVERED 

Most  of  the  pictures  were  imperfect — 
blurred  or  shadowed  or  ill-focused.  Out  of 
them  all  there  were  only  four  or  five  that 
Darrin  counted  worth  the  saving;  but  he  and 
Euth  found  fascination  in  the  study  of  even 
the  worthless  ones. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  confidence  be 
tween  them  should  develop  swiftly  in  these 
afternoons  together.  It  was  not  surprising 
that  Euth  one  afternoon  dared  ask  Darrin  a 
question.  She  had  been  curiously  silent,  study 
ing  him,  until  he  noticed  it,  and  laughed  at 
her  for  it;  and  she  told  him  then,  "I'm  won 
dering — whether  we  really  know  you  here." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  quick  intentness, 
smiled  a  little.  "Why!"  he  asked.  "What 
are  you  thinking?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know,  ex 
actly.  Just  that  sometimes  I  felt  you're  hid 
ing  something;  that  you're  not  thinking  about 
the  things  you — seem  to  think  about." 

He  said  good-naturedly,  "You're  making  a 
mystery  out  of  me." 

"A  little,"  she  admitted. 

"There's  no  mystery,"  he  said;  and  he 
added  softly:  "There's  a  deal  more  mystery 
about  you,  to  me," 


EVERED  135 

He  had  never,  as  they  say,  made  love  to 
her.  Yet  there  was  that  in  his  tone  now 
which  made  her  flush  softly  and  look  away 
from  him.  Watching  her  he  hesitated.  His 
hand  touched  hers.  She  drew  her  hand  away 
and  rose  abruptly. 

"I  must  go  back  to  the  house, "  she  said. 
4  *  It's  time  I  was  starting  supper." 

He  was  on  his  feeT,  facing  her;  but  there 
was  only  cheerful  friendliness  in  his  eyes.  He 
would  not  alarm  her.  "Come  again,"  he  said. 
"I  like  to  have  you  come." 

"You  never  come  to  the  house,  except  for 
eggs  and  things.  You  ought  to  come  and 
see  us." 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  he  said;  and  he  watched 
her  as  she  climbed  the  knoll  and  disappeared. 
His  eyes  were  very  gentle;  there  would  have 
been  in  them  an  exultant  light  if  he  could 
have  seen  the  girl,  once  out  of  his  sight,  stop 
and  look  back  to  where  the  smoke  of  his  little 
fire  rose  above  the  trees. 

Darrin  was  much  in  her  thoughts  during 
these  days.  She  would  have  thought  of  him 
more  if  she  had  been  able  to  think  less  of 
John. 


XIV 

DAKBIN'S  departure  came  abruptly.  He 
had  gone  to  the  village  one  night  for 
his  mail,  and  found  a  letter  waiting, 
which  he  read  with  avid  eyes.  Having  read 
it  he  put  it  away  in  his  pocket,  and  came  to 
"Will  Bissell  and  asked  how  he  might  most 
quickly  reach  Boston. 

Will  told  him  there  was  a  morning  train 
from  town;  and  Darrin  nodded  and  left  the 
store.  He  decided  to  walk  the  ten  miles 
through  the  night.  It  was  cool  and  clear; 
the  walk  would  be  good  for  him.  It  would 
give  him  time  for  thinking. 

He  went  back  to  his  camp  and  slept  till 
three  in  the  morning.  Then  he  made  a  little 
breakfast  and  ate  it  and  packed  his  camp  be 
longings  under  his  tarpaulin  for  cover.  To 
the  tarp  he  fastened  a  note,  addressed  to 
Euth.  He  wrote  simply: 

"Dear  Ruth:  I  have  to  go  away  for  four  or 
five  days,  hurriedly.  I  would  have  said  good- 

136 


EVERED  137 

by  if  there  were  time.  If  it  rains  will  you.  ask 
John  to  put  my  things  under  shelter  some 
where?  In  the  barn  will  do.  There  is  a  cam 
era  set  at  the  crossing  of  the  brook  where  the 
old  pine  is  down.  Perhaps  he  will  find  that 
and  take  care  of  it  for  me.  My  other  things 
in  the  box  here  are  safe  enough.  The  box  is 
waterproof. 

"I  will  not  be  long  gone.  I'm  taking  the 
morning  train  from  town.  Please  remember 
me  to  Mr.  Evered. 

"  Yours,  FEED." 

At  a  little  after  four,  dressed  in  tramping 
clothes,  but  with  other  garments  in  a  bundle 
under  his  arm,  he  started  for  town.  He  had 
time  to  change  his  garments  there,  and  cash  a 
check  at  the  bank,  and  have  a  more  substantial 
breakfast  before  he  boarded  the  morning  train. 

Euth  discovered  that  Darrin  had  gone  on 
the  afternoon  of  his  going.  She  went  down  to 
his  camp  by  the  spring  with  an  eagerness  of 
anticipation  which  she  did  not  admit  even  to 
herself;  and  when  she  saw  that  he  was  not 
there  she  was  at  once  relieved  and  unhappy. 

The  girl  had  stopped  on  the  knoll  above  the 
camp;  and  she  stood  there  for  a  moment  look- 


138  EVERED 

ing  all  about,  thinking  Darrin  might  be  some 
where  near.  Then  she  marked  the  careful  or 
der  of  the  spot,  and  saw  that  all  the  camp  gear 
was  stowed  away;  and  abruptly  she  guessed 
what  had  happened.  She  ran  then  down  the 
knoll,  and  so  came  almost  at  once  upon  the  note 
he  had  left  for  her. 

She  read  this  through,  frowning  and  puz 
zling  a  little  over  the  intricacies  of  his  hand 
writing;  and  she  did  not  know  whether  to  be 
unhappy  over  his  going  or  happy  that  he  had 
remembered  to  leave  this  word  for  her.  She 
did  not  press  the  scribbled  note  against  her 
bosom,  but  she  did  read  it  through  a  second 
time,  and  then  refold  it  carefully,  and  then 
take  it  out  and  read  it  yet  again.  In  the  end 
it  was  still  in  her  hand  when  she  turned  re 
luctantly  back  up  the  hill.  She  put  it  in  the 
top  drawer  of  her  bureau  in  her  room. 

She  told  John  and  Evered  at  suppertime 
that  Darrin  was  gone.  Evered  seemed  like  a 
man  relieved  of  a  burden,  till  she  added,  "He's 
coming  back  again,  though/' 

John  asked,  "How  do  you  know?" 

"He  left  a  note  for  me,"  she  said. 

John  bent  over  his  plate,  hiding  the  hurt  in 
his  eyes.  The  girl  told  him  of  the  camera  set 


EVERED  139 

in  the  swamp,  and  John  promised  to  go  and 
fetch  it,  and  to  bring  Darrin's  other  belong 
ings  under  shelter  in  the  woodshed  or  the 
barn. 

He  managed  this  the  next  day;  and  Ruth 
made  occasion  to  go  to  the  barn  more  than 
once  for  the  sheer  happiness  of  looking  upon 
them.  John  caught  her  at  it  once ;  but  he  did 
not  let  her  know  that  he  had  seen.  The  young 
man  was  in  these  days  woefully  unhappy. 

It  is  fair  to  say  that  he  had  reason  to  be. 
Ruth  was  kind  to  him,  never  spoke  harshly  or 
in  an  unfriendly  fashion;  in  fact,  she  was  al 
most  too  friendly.  There  was  a  finality  about 
her  friendliness  which  baffled  him  and  erected 
a  barrier  between  him  and  her.  The  man  tried 
awkwardly  to  bring  matters  back  to  the  old 
sweet  footing  between  them;  but  the  girl  was 
of  nimbler  wit  than  he.  She  put  him  off  with 
out  seeming  to  do  so;  she  erected  an  impass 
able  defense  about  herself. 

On  the  surface  they  were  as  they  had  al 
ways  been.  Evered  could  see  no  difference 
in  their  bearing.  Neighbors  who  occasionally 
stopped  at  the  house  decided  that  John  and 
Ruth  were  going  to  be  married  when  the  time 
should  come;  and  they  told  each  other  they 


140  EVERED 

had  always  said  so.  Before  others  the  rela 
tions  between  the  two  were  pleasantly  friendly ; 
but  there  were  no  longer  the  sweet  stolen  mo 
ments  when  their  arms  entwined  and  their  lips 
met.  When  they  were  alone  together  Euth 
treated  John  as  though  others  were  about ;  and 
John  knew  no  way  to  break  through  her 
barriers. 

About  the  fifth  day  after  Darrin's  going 
Euth  began  to  expect  his  return.  He  did  not 
come  on  that  day,  nor  on  the  next,  nor  on  the 
next  thereafter.  She  became  a  little  wistful, 
a  little  lonely.  Toward  the  middle  of  the  sec 
ond  week  she  found  herself  clinging  with  a 
desperate  earnestness  to  a  despairing  hope. 
He  had  promised  to  come  back ;  she  thought  he 
would  come  back.  There  had  never  been  any 
word  of  more  than  friendliness  between  them ; 
yet  the  girl  felt  that  such  a  word  must  come, 
and  that  he  would  return  to  speak  it. 

One  night  she  dreamed  that  he  would  never 
come  again,  and  woke  to  find  tears  streaming 
across  her  cheeks.  She  lay  awake  for  a  long 
time,  eyes  wide  and  staring,  wondering  if  she 
loved  him. 

During  this  interval  of  Darrin's  absence 
there  manifested  itself  in  Evered  a  curious 


EVERED  141 

wistful  desire  to  placate  Buth;  to  win  her 
good  will. 

She  noticed  it  first  one  day  when  the  man 
had  been  very  still,  sitting  all  day  in  the 
kitchen  with  his  eyes  before  him,  brooding 
over  ungiiessed  matters.  It  was  a  day  of 
blustering,  blowing  rain,  a  day  when  the  wind 
lashed  about  the  house  and  there  was  little 
that  could  be  done  out  of  doors.  Kuth,  busy 
about  the  room,  watched  Evered  covertly;  her 
eyes  strayed  toward  him  now  and  again. 

She  had  not  fully  realized  till  that  day  how 
much  the  man  was  aging.  The  change  had 
come  gradually,  but  it  had  been  marked.  His 
hair,  that  had  been  black  as  coal  six  months 
before,  was  iron  gray  now;  it  showed  glints 
that  were  snow  white,  here  and  there.  The 
skin  of  his  cheeks  had  lost  its  bronze  luster; 
it  seemed  to  have  grown  loose,  as  though  the 
man  were  shrinking  inside.  It  hung  in  little 
folds  about  his  mouth  and  jaw. 

His  head,  too,  was  bowing  forward ;  his  head 

that  had  always  been  so  erect,  so  firm,  so  hard 

and  sternly  poised.     His  neck  seemed  to  be 

weakening  beneath  the  load  it  bore;  and  his 

shoulders  were  less  square.     They  hung  for- 


142  EVERED 

ward,  as  though  the  man  were  cold  and  were 
guarding  his  chest  with  his  arms. 

The  fullness  of  the  change  came  to  Euth 
with  something  of  a  shock,  came  when  she  was 
thinking  it  strange  that  Evered  should  be  con 
tent  to  remain  all  day  indoors.  He  was  by 
nature  an  active  man,  of  overflowing  bodily 
energy ;  he  was  used  to  go  out  in  all  weathers 
to  his  tasks.  She  had  seen  him  come  in,  drip 
ping,  in  the  past;  his  cheeks  ruddy  from  the 
wet  and  cold,  his  eyes  glowing  with  the  fire  of 
health,  his  chest  heaving  to  great  deep  breaths 
of  air.  More  and  more  often  of  late,  she  re 
membered,  he  had  stayed  near  the  stove  and 
the  fire,  as  though  it  comforted  him. 

Euth  had  not  John's  sympathetic  under 
standing  of  the  heart  of  Evered;  nevertheless, 
she  knew,  as  John  did,  that  the  man  had — in 
his  harsh  fashion — loved  his  dead  wife  well. 
She  had  always  known  this,  even  though  she 
had  never  been  able  to  understand  how  a  man 
might  hurt  the  woman  he  loved.  If  she  had 
not  known,  she  would  not  have  blamed  Evered 
so  bitterly  for  all  the  bitter  past.  It  was  one 
of  the  counts  of  her  indictment  of  him  that  he 
had  indeed  loved  Mary;  and  that  even  so  he 


EVERED  143 

had  made  the  dead  woman  unhappy  through 
so  many  years. 

Watching  him  this  day  Ruth  thought  that 
sorrow  was  breaking  him;  and  the  thought 
somewhat  modified,  without  her  knowing  it, 
the  strength  of  her  condemnation  of  the  man. 
When  in  mid  afternoon  he  took  from  her  the 
shovel  and  broom  with  which  she  was  prepar 
ing  to  clean  out  the  ashes  of  the  stove,  and  did 
the  task  himself,  she  was  amazed  and  angry 
with  herself  to  find  in  her  heart  a  spark  of 
pity  for  him. 

"Let  me  do  that,  Ruthie,"  he  had  said. 
"It's  hard  for  you." 

He  had  never  been  a  man  given  to  small 
chores  about  the  house ;  he  was  awkward  at  it. 
His  very  awkwardness,  the  earnestness  of  his 
clumsy  efforts — warmed  the  girPs  heart;  she 
found  her  eyes  wet  as  she  watched  him,  and 
took  recourse  in  an  abrupt  protest. 

"You're  spilling  the  ashes,"  she  said. 
"Here,  let  me." 

She  would  have  taken  the  broom  from  him, 
but  Evered  would  not  let  it  go.  He  looked 
toward  her  as  they  held  the  broom  between 
them,  and  there  was  in  his  eyes  such  an 


144  EVERED 

agony  of  desire  to  please  her  that  tlie  girl 
had  to  turn  away. 

What  was  moving  in  Evered's  mind  it  is 
hard  to  say,  hard  to  put  in  words.  He  had 
not  yet  surrendered  to  regret  for  the  thing  he 
had  done;  he  was  still  able  to  bolster  his 
courage,  to  strengthen  himself  by  the  reflection 
that  his  wife  had  wronged  him.  He  was  still 
able  to  fan  to  life  the  embers  of  his  rage 
against  her  and  against  Semler.  Yet  the  man 
was  finding  it  hard  to  endure  the  hatred  in 
Ruth's  eyes,  the  silent  glances  which  met  him 
when  he  went  abroad,  the  ostracism  of  the 
village.  He  wanted  comradeship  in  these  days 
as  he  had  never  wanted  it  before.  He  desired 
the  friendship  of  mankind;  he  desired,  in  an 
unformed  way,  the  affection  of  Ruth.  The  girl 
had  come  to  symbolize  in  his  thoughts  some 
thing  like  his  own  conscience.  He  was  uncer 
tainly  conscious  that  if  she  forgave  him,  looked 
kindly  upon  him,  bore  him  no  more  malice,  he 
might  altogether  forgive  himself  for  that  which 
he  had  done. 

Yet  when  he  put  this  thought  in  words  it 
evoked  a  revolt  in  his  own  heart ;  and  he  would 
cry  out  to  himself,  "I  need  no  forgiveness! 
I've  nothing  to  forgive!  I  was  right  to  let  the 


EVERED  145 

bull.  .  .  .  She  was  false  as  a  witch;  false  as 
hell!*1 

He  found  poor  comfort  in  this  thought.  So 
long  as  he  believed  his  wife  was  guilty  he 
could  endure  the  torment  of  his  own  remorse, 
could  relieve  the  pain  of  it.  And  if  Euth 
would  only  smile  upon  him,  be  her  old  friendly 
self  to  him  again.  .  .  . 

The  man's  attentions  to  her  were  almost 
like  an  uncouth  wooing.  He  began  to  study 
the  girl's  wants,  to  find  little  ways  to  help 
her,  to  anticipate  her  desires,  to  ease  her 
work  about  the  house.  He  sought  oppor 
tunities  to  talk  with  her,  and  drove  himself 
to  speak  gently  and  ingratiatingly.  He  called 
her  Euthie,  though  she  had  always  been  Euth 
to  him  before. 

The  man  was  pitiful;  the  girl  could  not 
wholly  harden  her  heart  against  him.  Nat 
urally  generous  and  kindly  she  caught  herself 
thinking  that  after  all  he  had  loved  Mary 
well;  that  he  missed  her  terribly.  Once  or 
twice  hearing  him  move  about  his  room  in 
the  night  she  guessed  his  loneliness.  She  was 
more  and  more  sorry  for  Evered. 

Euth  was  not  the  only  one  who  saw  that 
the  man  was  growing  old  too  swiftly.  They 


146  EVERED 

marked  the  fact  at  Will  BisselPs  store.  Will 
saw  it,  and  Lee  Motley  saw  it,  and  Jim  Sala- 
dine;  these  three  with  a  certain  sympathy. 
Jean  Bubier  saw  it  with  sardonic  amusement, 
tinged  with  understanding.  Old  Man  Varney 
saw  it  with  malice ;  and  Judd  in  the  meanness 
of  his  soul  saw  it  with  malignant  delight. 

"Looking  for  friends  now,  he  is,"  Judd 
exclaimed  one  night.  "Him  that  was  so  bold 
before.  Tried  to  start  talk  with  me  to-day.  I 
turned  my  back  on  the  man.  I'd  a  mind  to 
tell  him  why.'' 

Motley  and  Saladine  spoke  of  the  thing 
together.  Motley  said,  "I  think  he — thought 
a  deal  of  Mary — in  the  man's  way." 

And  Saladine  nodded  and  said:  "Yes.  But 
— there's  more  to  it  than  that,  Lee.  More 
than  we  know,  I  figure.  Something  hidden 
behind  it  all.  A  black  thing,  if  the  whole 
truth  was  to  come  out.  Or  so  it  looks  to  me." 

Saladine  was  a  steady,  thoughtful  man,  and 
Motley  respected  his  opinion,  and  thought 
upon  the  matter  much  thereafter;  but  he  was 
to  come  to  no  conclusion. 

On  his  farm  the  change  in  Evered  mani 
fested  itself  in  more  than  one  way;  in  no 
way  more  markedly  than  in  his  lack  of  energy. 


EVERED  147 

He  left  most  of  the  chores  to  John ;  and,  what 
was  more  significant,  he  gave  over  to  John 
full  care  of  the  huge  red  bull.  It  had  been 
Evered's  delight  to  master  that  brute  and 
bend  it  to  his  will.  John  and  Ruth  both 
marked  that  he  avoided  it  in  these  later  days. 
John  had  the  feeding  of  it;  he  cleaned  its 
stall;  he  tossed  in  straw  for  the  creature's 
bed.  The  bull  was  beginning  to  know  him,  to 
know  that  it  need  not  fear  him.  He  was 
accustomed  to  go  into  its  stall  and  move  about 
the  beast  without  precautions,  speaking  gently 
when  he  spoke  at  all. 

Euth  never  saw  this.  She  seldom  went 
near  the  red  bull's  stall.  She  hated  the  ani 
mal  and  dreaded  it.  On  one  occasion  she 
did  go  near  its  pen.  It  was  suppertime  and 
the  food  was  hot  upon  the  table.  She  called 
John  from  the  woodshed,  and  then  came  to 
the  kitchen  door  to  summon  Evered.  He  was 
leaning  against  the  high  gate  of  the  bull's 
plank- walled  yard  looking  in  at  the  animal. 
Kuth  called  to  him  to  come  to  supper,  but  he 
did  not  turn.  She  called  again,  and  still  the 
man  did  not  move. 

A  little  alarmed,  for  fear  he  might  have 
faeen  suddenly  stricken  sick,  she  went  swiftly 


148  EVERED 

across  the  barnyard  to  where  he  stood,  and 
looked  at  him,  and  looked  into  the  pen. 

Evered  was  watching  the  bull;  and  the 
bull  stood  a  dozen  feet  away,  watching  the 
man.  There  was  a  stillness  about  them  both 
which  frightened  the  girl;  a  still  intentness. 
Neither  moved;  their  eyes  met  steadily  with 
out  shifting.  There  was  no  emotion  in  either 
of  them.  It  was  as  though  the  man  were 
probing  the  bull's  mind,  as  though  the  bull 
would  read  the  man's  thoughts.  They  were 
like  persons  hypnotized.  Ruth  shivered  and 
touched  Evered 's  arm  and  shook  it  a  little. 

"Supper's  ready,"  she  said. 

He  turned  to  her  with  eyes  still  glazed  from 
•the  intensity  of  their  stare. 

"Supper?"  he  echoed.  Then  remembrance 
came  to  him;  and  he  nodded  heavily  and  said 
with  that  wistfully  ingratiating  note  in  his 
voice,  "Yes,  Euthie,  I'm  coming.  Come;  let's 
go  together." 

He  took  her  arm,  and  she  had  not  the  hard 
ness  of  heart  to  break  away  from  him.  They 
went  into  the  house  side  by  side. 


XV 


IN  mid-October  Damn  returned  afoot, 
as  he  had  departed;  and  there  was  no 
warning  of  his  coming.  He  reached  the 
farm  in  the  afternoon.  John  was  in  the  wood- 
lot  at  the  time,  cutting  the  wood  into  cord 
lengths  in  preparation  for  hauling.  Evered 
had  worked  in  the  morning,  but  after  dinner 
he  sat  down  by  the  kitchen  stove  and  re 
mained  there,  in  the  dull  apathy  of  thought 
which  was  becoming  habitual  to  him.  He 
was  still  there  and  Kuth  was  busy  about  the 
room  when  Darrin  came  to  the  door.  Euth 
had  caught  sight  of  him  through  the  window; 
she  was  at  the  door  to  meet  him  and  opened 
it  before  he  knocked.  She  wanted  to  tell  him 
how  glad  she  was  to  see  him;  but  all  she 
could  do  was  stand  very  still,  her  right  hand 
at  her  throat,  her  eyes  on  his. 

He  said  gently,  "Well,  I've  come  back.  But 
it  has  been  longer  than  I  thought  it  would  be." 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  it  has  been  a  long 
time." 

149 


150  EVERED 

There  was  so  much  of  confession  in  her 
tone  that  the  man's  heart  pounded  and  he 
stepped  quickly  toward  her.  But  when  she 
moved  back  he  saw  Evered  within  the  room, 
watching  him  with  dull  eyes;  and  he  caught 
himself  and  his  face  sobered  and  hardened. 

"My  things  are  here?"  he  asked. 

"In  the  shed,"  she  said.  "John  brought 
them  up.  I'll  show  you." 

She  stepped  away  and  he  followed  her  into 
the  kitchen,  toward  the  door  that  opened  at 
one  side  into  the  shed. 

She  had  already  opened  the  door  when 
Evered  asked  huskily,  "Back,  are  you!" 

Darrin  said,  "Yes."  There  was  an  inde 
scribable  note  of  hostility  in  his  voice  which 
he  could  not  disguise. 

"Won't  be  here  long  now,  I  figure,"  Evered 
suggested. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Darrin.  "I'll  be 
here  till  I've  done  what  I  came  to  do." 

Evered  did  not  speak  for  a  minute;  then 
he  asked,  "Get  them  moose  pictures,  you 
mean?" 

Kuth  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other 
in  a  bewildered  way,  half  sensing  the  fact 
that  both  were  wary  and  alert. 


EVERED  151 

Barrin  said,  "Of  course." 

Evered  shook  his  head.  "Dangerous  busi 
ness,  this  time  o'  year.  The  old  bulls  have 
got  other  things  on  their  mind  besides  having 
their  pictures  took." 

"I'll  risk  it,"  said  Darrin. 

"You've  a  right  to,"  Evered  told  him,  and 
turned  away. 

Darrin  watched  the  man  for  an  instant; 
then  he  followed  Euth  into  the  shed.  She 
showed  him  his  dunnage,  packed  in  a  stout 
roll;  and  he  lifted  it  by  the  lashing  and 
slung  it  across  his  shoulder. 

"Mr.  Evered  is  right,"  she  said.  "The 
moose  are  dangerous — in  the  fall." 

He  touched  his  roll  with  his  left  hand  af 
fectionately.  "I've  a  gun  here.  My  pistol, 
you  know.  I'll  be  careful." 

She  urged  softly,  "Please  do." 

There  was  so  much  solicitude  in  her  voice 
that  Darrin  was  shaken  by  it ;  he  slid  the  roll 
to  the  floor. 

Then  Evered  came  to  the  door  that  led 
into  the  shed;  and  he  said,  "I'll  help  you 
down  with  that  stuff." 

Darrin  shook  his  head.  "No  need,"  he 
replied.  "I  can  handle  it." 


152  EVERED 

He  swung  it  up  again  across  his  shoulder; 
and  Ruth  opened  the  outer  door  for  him.  She 
and  Evered  stood  together  watching  him  cross 
the  barnyard  and  lower  the  bars  and  pass 
through  and  go  on  his  way. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  Euth  looked  up 
at  Evered;  and  the  man  said  gently,  "Glad  to 
see  him,  Euthie?" 

She  nodded,  "I  like  him." 

"More  than  you  like  John?"  the  man  asked. 

And  she  said  steadily,  "I  like  them  both. 
But  Darrin  is  gentle,  and  strong  too.  And 
you  Evereds  are  only  cruelly  strong." 

"I  wouldn't  say  John  was  cruel,"  the  man 
urged  wistfully. 

"He's  your  son,"  she  said,  the  old  bitter 
ness  in  her  voice. 

And  Evered  nodded,  as  though  in  con 
fession.  He  looked  in  the  direction  Darrin 
had  taken. 

"I  wonder  what  he's  back  for,"  he  said 
half  to  himself. 

Euth  did  not  answer,  and  after  a  little  she 
went  back  into  the  kitchen.  She  heard  Evered 
working  with  his  ax  for  a  while,  splitting  up 
wood  for  the  stove;  and  presently  he  brought 
in  an  armful  and  dumped  it  in  the  woodbox. 


EVERED  153 

It  was  a  thing  he  had  done  before,  though 
John  was  accustomed  to  carry  her  wood  for 
her.  As  he  dropped  the  wood  now  Evered 
looked  toward  her,  as  though  to  make  sure 
she  had  seen;  he  smiled  in  a  pleading,  broken 
way.  She  thanked  him,  a  certain  sympathy 
in  her  voice  in  spite  of  herself.  The  man 
was  so  broken;  he  had  grown  so  old  in  so 
short  a  time. 

Darrin,  bound  toward  his  old  camping 
ground  at  the  spring,  heard  John's  ax  in  the 
birch  growth  at  his  left,  but  he  did  not  turn 
aside.  There  was  a  new  purpose  in  the  man; 
his  old  pleasantly  amiable  demeanor  had  al 
tered;  his  eyes  were  steady  and  hard.  He 
reached  the  spring  and  disposed  his  goods, 
with  a  packet  of  provisions  which  he  had 
brought  from  the  village. 

A  little  later  he  went  back  up  the  hill  to 
get  milk  and  eggs  from  the  farm.  It  chanced 
that  he  found  Evered  in  the  barnyard;  and 
Evered  saw  him  coming,  and  watched  him 
approach.  They  came  face  to  face  at  the 
bars,  and  when  Darrin  had  passed  through 
he  stood  still,  eying  the  other  man  and  waiting 
for  Evered  to  speak.  There  was  a  steady 
scrutiny  in  Evered 's  eyes,  a  questioning;  Dar- 


154  EVERED 

rin  met  this  questioning  glance  with  one  that 
told  nothing.  His  lips  set  a  little  grimly. 

Evered  asked  at  last,  "You  say  you  came 
back  for  more  pictures?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  wondering  if  you'll  get  what  you 
come  for." 

Darrin  said,  "I  intend  to." 

Evered  nodded  quietly.  "All  right,"  he 
agreed.  "I  don't  aim  to  hinder." 

He  turned  toward  the  barn;  and  as  he 
turned  Darrin  saw  that  he  had  his  knife  slung 
in  its  leather  sheath  upon  his  hip.  The  sheath 
was  deep;  only  the  tip  of  the  knife's  haft 
showed.  Yet  Damn's  eyes  fastened  on  this 
with  a  strange  intentness,  as  though  he  were 
moved  by  a  morbid  curiosity  at  sight  of  the 
thing.  The  heavy  knife  had  taken  so  many 
lives. 

Darrin  did  not  move  till  Evered  had  gone 
into  the  barn  and  out  of  sight;  then  the 
younger  man  turned  toward  the  house,  and 
knocked,  and  Ruth  opened  the  door. 

He  asked,  "Can  I  get  milk  to-night,  and 
eggs;  and  have  you  made  butter?" 

She  had  been  surprised  to  see  him  so  soon 
again;  she  was  a  little  startled,  could  not  find 


EVERED  155 

words  at  once.  But  she  nodded  and  he  came 
into  the  kitchen  and  she  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  for  the  day  was  cold. 

"We  haven't  milked,"  she  said.  "It  will 
be  a  little  while." 

Darrin,  whose  thoughts  had  been  on  other 
things,  found  himself  suddenly  swept  by  a 
sense  of  her  loveliness.  He  had  always  known 
that  she  was  beautiful,  but  he  had  held  back 
the  thought,  had  fought  against  it.  Now  see 
ing  her  again  after  so  long  a  time  he  forgoti 
everything  but  her.  She  saw  the  slow  change 
in  his  eyes;  and  though  she  had  longed  for  it, 
it  frightened  her. 

She  began  to  tremble,  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  all  she  could  say  was,  "Oh!" 

Darrin  came  toward  her  then  slowly.  He 
had  not  meant  to  speak,  yet  the  words  came 
before  he  knew.  "Ah,  Euth,  I  have  missed 
you  so,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  were  dim  and  soft.  She  was  mis 
erably  happy,  an  anguish  of  happiness. 

He  said,  "I  love  you  so,  Euth.  I  love  you 
so."  And  he  kissed  her. 

The  girl  was  swept  as  by  a  tempest.  She 
had  dreamed  of  this  man  for  weeks,  ideal 
izing  him,  thinking  him  all  that  was  fine  and 


156  EVERED 

gentle  and  good.  She  gave  herself  to  his 
kisses  as  though  she  were  hungry  for  them. 
She  was  crying,  tears  were  flowing  down  her 
cheeks;  and  at  first  she  thought  this  was 
because  she  was  so  happy,  while  Darrin,  half 
alarmed,  half  laughing,  whispered  to  comfort 
her. 

Then  slowly  the  girl  knew  that  she  was 
not  crying  because  she  was  so  happy.  She 
could  not  tell  why  she  cried;  she  could  not 
put  her  heart  in  words.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  lonely,  terribly  lonely.  And  she 
was  angry  with  herself  at  that.  How  could 
she  be  lonely  in  his  arms?  In  Damn's  arms, 
his  kisses  on  her  wet  cheeks? 

She  could  not  put  the  thought  away.  While 
he  still  held  her  she  wept  for  very  loneliness. 
He  could  not  soothe  her.  She  scarce  heard 
him;  she  put  her  hands  against  him  and  tried 
to  push  him  away,  feebly  at  first.  She  did 
not  want  to  push  him  away;  yet  something 
made  her.  He  held  her  still;  his  arms  were 
like  bands  of  iron.  He  was  so  strong,  so  hard. 
Thus  close  against  him  she  seemed  to  feel  a 
rigor  of  spirit  in  the  man.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  pressed  against  a  wall.  He  freed 
her.  "Please,"  he  said. 


EVERED  157 

And  she  cried,  as  though  to  persuade  her 
self,  "Oh,  I  do  love  you!  I  do!" 

But  when  he  would  have  put  his  arms 
round  her  again  she  shrank  away  from  him, 
so  that  he  forbore.  She  turned  quickly  away 
to  her  tasks.  She  had  time  to  compose  herself 
before  Evered  came  in,  and  later  John.  Then 
Darrin  left  with  the  things  he  had  come  to 
secure,  and  went  down  the  hill  in  the  early 
dusk  of  fall. 

Euth  was  thoughtful  that  evening ;  she  went 
early  to  her  room.  She  was  trying  desperately 
to  understand  herself.  She  had  been  drawn 
so  strongly  toward  Darrin,  she  had  found  him 
all  that  she  wanted  a  man  to  be.  She  had 
been  miserable  at  his  going,  had  longed  for 
his  return.  She  had  wanted  that  which  had 
come  to  pass  this  day.  The  girl  was  honest 
with  herself,  had  always  been  honest  with 
herself.  She  had  known  she  loved  him,  longed 
for  him. 

Yet  now  he  was  returned,  he  loved  her  and 
his  kisses  only  served  to  make  her  miserably 
lonely.  She  could  not  understand;  slept,  still 
without  comprehending. 

Darrin,  next  day,  did  not  go  into  the  swamp. 
He  busied  himself  about  the  spring,  producing 


158  EVERED 

again  that  sketch  which  he  had  made  on  the 
day  Evered  told  him  the  story  of  the  tragedy. 
He  was  groping  for  something,  groping  for 
understanding,  his  forehead  wrinkled  and  his 
eyes  were  sober  with  thought. 

After  he  had  cooked  his  dinner  and  eaten 
it  the  man  sat  for  a  long  time  by  the  fire,  tend 
ing  it  with  liflle  sticks,  watching  the  flames 
as  though  he  expected  to  find  in  them  the 
answer  to  his  riddle.  Once  he  took  from  his 
pocket  a  letter,  and  read  it  soberly  enough, 
then  put  it  back  again.  And  once  he  took 
fresh  paper  and  made  a  new  sketch  of  the 
locality  about  him. 

He  seemed  at  last  to  come  to  some  decision. 
The  aspect  of  his  countenance  changed  subtly. 
He  got  to  his  feet,  pacing  back  and  forth.  At 
about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  put  on 
his  coat  and  started  up  the  knoll  toward  the 
farm.  When  he  had  gone  some  fifty  yards 
he  stopped,  hesitated,  and  came  back  to  his 
camp  fire.  From  his  kit  he  selected  the  auto 
matic  pistol,  saw  that  it  held  a  loaded  clip, 
belted  it  on.  It  hung  under  his  coat  incon 
spicuously. 

He  went  on  his  way  this  time  without  hesi 
tation;  went  steadily  up  the  hill,  reached  the 


EVERED  159 

bars  about  the  farmyard,  passed  through  and 
knocked  on  the  kitchen  door. 

Ruth  came  to  the  door;  he  asked  her  ab 
stractedly,  as  though  she  were  a  stranger, 
where  Evered  was.  She  said  he  was  in  the 
shed;  and  Darrin  went  there  and  found 
Evered  grinding  an  ax.  The  man  looked  up 
at  his  coming  with  sober  eyes.  Kuth  had 
stayed  in  the  kitchen. 

Darrin  said  quietly,  "Evered,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

Evered  hesitated,  studying  the  other.  He 
asked,  "What  about!" 

"A  good  many  things,"  Darrin  told  him. 

Evered  laid  aside  the  ax.  "All  right,"  he 
said. 

"Come  away  from  the  house,"  Darrin  sug 
gested. 

There  was  a  certain  dominant  note  in  his 
voice.  The  old  Evered  would  have  stayed 
where  he  was;  but  the  old  Evered  was  dead. 
"Come,"  said  Darrin;  and  he  stepped  out 
into  the  yard  and  Evered  followed  him.  Dar 
rin  crossed  to  the  bars  and  let  them  down. 
He  and  Evered  passed  silently  through. 

The  men  went,  Darrin  a  little  in  the  lead, 
down  the  hill  toward  the  spring. 


XVI 

THE  day  was  cold  and  damp  and  chill, 
with  a  promise  of  snow  in  the  air;  one 
of  those  ugly  October  days  when  coming 
winter  seems  to  sulk  upon  the  northern  hills, 
awaiting  summer's  tardy  going.  Clouds  ob 
scured  the  sky,  though  now  and  then  during 
the  morning  the  sun  had  broken  through,  lay 
ing  a  patch  of  light  upon  the  earth  and  bring 
ing  out  the  nearer  hills  in  bold  relief  against 
those  that  were  farthest  off.  The  wind  was 
northeasterly,  always  a  storm  sign  hereabouts. 
There  was  haste  in  it,  and  haste  in  the  air, 
and  haste  in  all  the  wild  things  that  were 
abroad.  The  crows  overhead  flew  swiftly,  tum 
bling  headlong  in  the  racking  air  currents. 
A  flock  of  geese  passed  once,  high  in  the 
murk,  their  honking  drifting  faintly  down  to 
earth.  The  few  ground  birds  darted  from 
cover  to  cover;  the  late-pasturing  cows  had 
gone  early  to  the  barn.  Night  was  coming 
early;  an  ominous  blackness  seemed  about  to 

160 


EVERED  161 

shut  down  upon  the  world.  The  very  air  held 
threats  and  whispers  of  harm. 

Evered  and  Darrin  walked  in  silence  down 
along  the  old  wood  road,  through  a  birch 
chimp,  past  some  dwarfed  oaks,  and  out  into 
the  open  on  the  shelf  above  the  spring. 

Halfway  across  this  shelf  Darrin  said  "IVe 
got  some  questions  to  ask  you,  Evered. " 

Evered  did  not  answer.  Darrin  had  not 
stopped  and  Evered  kept  pace  with  him. 

The  younger  man  said,  "This  was  the  way 
you  came  that  day  your  wife  was  killed,  wasn't 
it!" 

Evered  turned  his  head  as  though  to  speak, 
hesitated.  Darrin  stopped  and  caught  his 
eye. 

"Look  here,"  he  demanded.  "YouVe  noth 
ing  to  hide  in  that  business,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Evered  mildly.  He  wondered 
why  he  answered  the  other  at  all;  yet  there 
was  something  in  the  younger  man's  bearing 
which  -he  did  not  care  to  meet,  something 
dominant  and  commanding,  as  though  Darrin 
had  a  right  to  ask,  and  knew  that  he  had  this 
right.  "No,"  said  Evered;  "nothing  to  hide." 

And  Darrin  repeated  his  question:  "Was 
this  the  way  you  came?" 


162  EtfERED 

Evered  nodded.  As  they  went  on  nearer 
the  spring  Darrin  touched  his  arm.  "I  want 
you  to  show  me  where  you  were  when  you 
first  saw  them — your  wife,  and  Semler,  and 
the  bull." 

Evered  made  no  response;  but  a  moment 
later  he  stopped.  "Here,"  he  said.  Darrin 
looked  down  toward  the  spring  and  all  about 
them.  And  Evered  repeated,  "Here,  by  this 
rock." 

The  younger  man  nodded  and  passed  down 
to  the  spring,  with  Evered  beside  him.  Darrin 
sat  down  and  motioned  Evered  to  sit. 

"What  did  you  think,  when  you  saw  them?" 
he  asked. 

Evered 's  cheeks  colored  slowly;  they  turned 
from  bronze  to  red,  from  red  to  purple. 

Darrin  prompted  him:  "When  you  saw 
your  wife  and  Semler  here  together. " 

"What  would  you  have  thought?"  Evered 
asked,  his  voice  held  steady. 

Darrin  nodded  understanding.  "You  were 
angry?"  he  suggested. 

Evered  flung  his  head  on  one  side  with  a 
fierce  gesture,  as  though  to  shut  out  some 
unwelcome  sight  that  assaulted  his  eyes. 

Darrin,  watching  him  acutely,  waited  for  a 


EVERED  163 

little  before  he  asked:  " Where  was  the  bull, 
when  you  saw  him  first?" 

Evered  jerked  his  hand  toward  the  right. 
" There,"  he  said. 

Darrin  got  up  and  went  in  that  direction, 
and  moved  to  and  fro,  asking  directions,  till 
Evered  told  him  he  was  near  the  spot.  Dar 
rin  came  back  then  and  sat  down. 

"You  thought  she  loved  him?"  he  asked 
under  his  breath. 

Evered  shook  his  head,  not  in  negation  but 
as  though  to  brush  the  question  aside.  Darrin 
filled  his  pipe  and  lighted  it,  and  puffed  at  it 
in  silence  for  a  while. 

"Pitkin  told  you  the  bull  was  loose,  didn't 
he?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"So  you  came  down  to  get  the  beast?" 

"Yes,  I  came  for  that." 

"Expect  any  trouble?" 

"You  can  always  look  for  trouble  with  the 
red  bull." 

"How  did  you  plan  to  handle  him?" 

"Brad,  and  nose  ring." 

Darrin  eyed  the  other  sharply.  "Wouldn't 
have  had  much  time  to  get  hold  of  his  nose 
ring  if  he'd  charged,  would  you?" 


164  EVERED 

"I  had  a  gun,"  said  Evered.  "A  forty- 
five." 

"Oh,"  said  Darrin.    "You  had  a  gun?" 

Evered,  a  little  restive,  cried,  "Yes,  damn 
it,  I  had  a  gun!" 

"You  must  have  felt  like  shooting  Semler," 
Darrin  suggested;  and  Evered  looked  at  him 
sidewise,  a  little  alarmed.  He  seemed  to  put 
himself  on  guard. 

Darrin  got  to  his  feet.  "They  were  sitting 
by  these  rocks,  weren't  they?" 

"Yes." 

The  younger  man  bent  above  the  other. 
"Evered,"  he  said,  "why  didn't  you  turn 
the  bull  from  its  charge?" 

He  saw  Evered 's  face  go  white,  his  eyes 
flickering  to  and  fro.  The  man  came  to  his 
feet. 

6 1  There  was  no  time ! "  he  exclaimed. 

His  voice  was  husky  and  unsteady;  Darrin 
dominated  him,  seemed  to  tower  above  him. 
There  was  about  Evered  the  air  of  a  broken 
man. 

Darrin  pointed  to  the  knoll.  "You  were 
within  half  a  dozen  strides  of  them.  The  bull 
was  full  thirty  yards  away." 

Evered  cried,  "Damn  you!" 


EVERED  165 

He  turned  abruptly,  climbed  the  knoll.  Dar- 
rin  stood  still  till  Evered  was  almost  gone 
from  his  sight,  then  he  shouted,  "  Evered !" 
Evered  went  on;  and  Darrin  with  a  low  ex 
clamation  leaped  after  him.  Evered  must 
have  heard  his  pounding  steps,  but  he  did  not 
turn.  Darrin  came  up  with  him;  he  tugged 
his  pistol  from  its  holster  and  jammed  it 
against  Evered's  side. 

6 '  Turn  round/'  he  said,  "or  I'll  blow  you 
in  two." 

Evered  did  not  turn;  he  did  not  stop. 
Dusk  had  fallen  upon  them  before  this;  their 
figures  were  black  in  the  growing  darkness. 
A  pelting  spray  of  rain  swept  over  them,  the 
drops  like  ice.  Above  them  the  hill  was  black 
against  the  gray  western  sky.  Behind  them 
and  below  the  swamp  brooded,  dark  and  still. 
Surrounded  by  gloom  and  wind  and  rain  the 
two  moved  thus  a  dozen  paces — Evered  look 
ing  straight  ahead,  Darrin  pressing  the  pistol 
against  the  other's  ribs. 

Then  Darrin  leaped  past  the  other,  into 
Evered 's  path,  his  weapon  leveled.  "Stop!" 
he  said,  harshly.  "You  wife  killer,  stop,  and 
listen  to  me!" 


166  EVERED 

Evered  came  on ;  and  Darrin  in  a  voice  that 
was  like  a  scream  warned  Mm:  "I'll  shoot!" 

Evered  did  not  stop.  There  was  a  certain 
dignity  about  the  man,  a  certain  strength. 
Against  it  Darrin  seemed  to  rebound  help 
lessly.  Their  roles  were  reversed.  Where 
Darrin  had  been  dominant  he  was  now  weak; 
where  Evered  had  been  weak  he  was  strong. 
The  older  man  came  on;  he  was  within  two 
paces.  Damn's  finger  pressed  the  trigger — 
indecisively.  Then  Evered 's  great  fist  whipped 
round  like  light  and  struck  Darrin 's  hand, 
and  the  pistol  flew  from  his  grip,  end  over 
end,  and  struck  against  a  bowlder  with  a  flash 
of  sparks  in  the  darkness.  Darrin 's  hand  and 
wrist  and  arm  were  numbed  by  the  blow; 
he  hugged  them  against  his  body.  Evered 
watched  him,  still  as  still.  And  Darrin 
screamed  at  him  in  a  hoarse  unsteady  voice 
his  black  accusation. 

"You  killed  her!"  he  cried.  "In  that  black 
temper  of  yours  you  let  the  bull  have  her. 
You're  a  devil  on  earth.  Evered!  You're  a 
devil  among  men!" 

Evered  lifted  his  hand,  silencing  the  man. 
Darrin  wished  to  speak  and  dared  not.  There 
was  something  terrible  in  the  other's  demea- 


EVERED  167 

nor,  something  terrible  in  his  calm  strength 
and  purpose. 

He  said  at  last  in  set  tones:  "It  was  my 
right.  She  was  guilty  as  hell!" 

Darrin  found  courage  to  laugh.  "Yon  lie," 
lie  said.  "And  that's  what  I'm  here  to  tell 
you,  man.  I  ought  to  take  you  and  give  you 
to  other  men,  to  hang  by  the  thick  neck  that 
holds  up  your  evil  head.  But  this  is  better, 
Evered.  This  is  better.  I  tell  you  your  wife, 
whom  you  killed,  was  as  clean  as  snow." 

When  he  had  spoken  he  was  afraid,  for  the 
light  in  Evered 's  eyes  was  the  father  of  fear. 
He  began  to  fumble  in  his  coat  in  a  desperate 
haste,  not  daring  to  look  away,  not  daring  to 
take  his  eyes  from  Evered 's.  He  fumbled 
there,  and  found  the  letter  he  had  read  beside 
his  fire  so  carefully;  found  it  and  drew  it, 
crumpled,  forth.  He  held  it  toward  Evered. 

"Bead,"  he  cried.    "Read  that,  and  see." 

Evered  took  the  letter  quietly;  and  before 
Darrin 's  eyes  the  fury  died  in  the  other  man. 
Over  his  face  there  crept  a  mask  of  sorrow 
irrevocable  and  profound.  He  said  no  word, 
but  took  the  letter  and  opened  it.  The  light 
was  dim;  he  could  not  read  till  Darrin  flashed 
his  electric  torch  upon  the  page.  A  strange 


168  EVERED 

picture,  in  that  moment,  these  two — Evered, 
the  old  and  breaking  man;  Darrin,  young  and 
vigorous;  Evered  dominant,  Darrin  tremu 
lously  exultant;  Evered,  his  great  head  bent, 
his  unaccustomed  eyes  scanning  the  written 
lines;  Darrin  holding  the  light  beside  him. 

Evered  was  slow  in  reading  the  letter,  for 
in  the  first  place  it  was  written  in  his  wife's 
hand,  and  he  had  loved  her;  so  that  his  eyes 
were  dimmed.  He  was  not  conscious  of  the 
words  he  read,  though  they  were  not  im 
portant.  It  was  the  message  of  the  lines 
that  came  home  to  him;  the  unmistakable 
truth  that  lay  behind  them.  The  letter  of  an 
unhappy  woman  to  a  man  whom  she  had 
found  friendly  and  kind.  She  told  Semler 
that  she  loved  Evered ;  told  him  this  so  simply 
there  could  be  no  questioning.  Would  always 
love  Evered.  Bade  Semler  forget  her,  be 
gone,  never  return.  Nothing  but  friendliness 
for  him.  Bade  him  not  make  her  unhappy. 
And  at  the  end,  again,  she  wrote  that  she 
loved  Evered. 

The  man  who  had  killed  her  did  not  so 
much  read  this  letter  as  absorb  it,  let  it  sink 
home  into  his  heart  and  carry  its  own  con 
viction  there. 


EVERED  169 

It  was  not  curiosity  that  moved  him,  not 
doubt  that  made  him  ask  Darrin  quietly: 
"How  got  you  this!" 

"From  Semler,"  Darrin  told  him.  "I  found 
him — followed  him  half  across  the  country — 
told  him  what  I  guessed.  That  was  the  only 
letter  he  ever  had  from  her.  Written  the  day 
you  killed  her.  Damn  you,  do  you  see!" 

"How  came  they  together?" 

"He  knew  she  liked  to  come  to  the  spring; 
he  found  her  there,  argued  with  her.  She  told 
him  she  loved  you;  there  was  no  moving  her. 
She  loved  you,  who  killed  her.  You  devil 
of  a  man!" 

Evered  folded  the  letter  carefully  and  put 
it  into  his  coat.  "Why  do  you  tell  me?"  he 
asked. 

"Because  I  know  you  cared  for  her!"  Dar 
rin  cried.  "Because  I  know  this  will  hurt 
you  worse  than  death  itself." 

Evered  standing  very  still  shook  his  head 
slowly.  "That  was  not  my  meaning,"  he 
explained  patiently.  "That  is  my  concern. 
Why  did  you  tell  me?  Why  so  much  trouble 
for  this?  How  did  the  matter  touch  you, 
Darrin?" 

The  younger  man  had  waited  for  this  mo- 


170  EVERED 

merit,  waited  for  it  through  the  years  of  his 
manhood.  He  had  planned  toward  it  for 
months  past,  shaping  it  to  his  fancy.  He  had 
looked  forward  to  It  as  a  moment  of  triumph; 
he  had  seen  himself  towering  in  just  con 
demnation  above  one  who  trembled  before  him. 
He  had  been  drunk  with  this  anticipation. 

But  the  reality  was  not  like  his  dreams. 
He  knew  that  Evered  was  broken;  that  his 
soul  must  be  shattered.  Yet  he  could  not 
exult.  There  was  such  a  strength  of  honest 
sorrow  in  the  old  man  before  him,  there  was 
so  much  dignity  and  power  that  Darrin  in  spite 
of  himself  was  shamed  and  shaken.  He  felt 
something  that  was  like  regret.  He  felt  him 
self  mean  and  small;  like  a  malicious,  mud- 
slinging,  inconsiderable  fragment  of  a  man. 
His  voice  was  low,  it  was  almost  apologetic 
when  he  answered  the  other's  question. 

"How  did  the  matter  touch  you,  Darrin?" 
Evered  asked;  and  the  rain  swept  over  them 
in  a  more  tempestuous  fusilade. 

Darrin  said  in  a  husky  choking  voice:  "I'm 
Dave  Biggs'  son.  You  killed  my  father." 

Evered,  silent  a  moment,  slowly  nodded  as 
though  not  greatly  surprised.  "Dave  Eiggs' 
boy,"  he  echoed.  "Aye,  I  might  have  known." 


EVERED 

And  lie  added:  "I  lost  you,  years  agone.  I 
tried  to  make  matters  easier  for  you,  for 
Dave's  sake.  I  was  sorry  for  that  matter, 
Darrin." 

Darrin  tried  to  flog  his  anger  to  white  heat 
again.  "You  killed  my  father,"  he  exclaimed. 
"When  I  was  still  a  boy  I  swore  that  I'd  pay 
you  for  that.  And  when  I  grew  up  I  planned 
and  planned.  And  when  I  heard  about  your 
wife,  I  came  up  here,  to  watch  you — find  out. 
I  felt  there  was  something.  I  told  you  I'd 
seen  Semler,  trapped  you.  You  told  me  more 
than  you  meant  to  tell.  And  then  I  got  trace 
of  him,  followed  him.  I  did  it  to  blast  you, 
Evered;  pay  you  for  what  you  did  to  me. 
That's  why." 

He  ended  lamely;  his  anger  was  dead;  his 
voice  was  like  a  plea. 

Evered  said  gently  and  without  anger.  "It 
was  your  right."  And  a  moment  later  he 
turned  slowly  and  went  away,  up  the  hill  and 
toward  his  home. 

Darrin,  left  behind,  labored  again  to  wake 
the  exultation  he  had  counted  on;  but  he 
could  not.  He  had  hungered  for  this  revenge 
of  his,  but  there  is  no  substance  in  raw  and 
naked  vengeance.  You  cannot  set  your  teeth 


172  EVERED 

in  it.  Darrin  found  that  it  left  him  empty, 
that  he  was  sick  of  himself  and  of  his  own 
deeds. 

"It  was  coming  to  him,"  he  cried  half  aloud. 

But  he  could  not  put  away  from  his  thoughts 
the  memory  of  Evered's  proud  dignity  of 
sorrow;  he  was  abashed  before  the  man. 

He  stumbled  back  to  his  rain-swept  camp 
like  one  who  has  done  a  crime. 


XVII 

WHEN  Evered  reached  the  farm,  dark 
had  fully  fallen;  and  the  cold  rain 
was  splattering  against  the  build 
ings,  driven  by  fierce  little  gusts  of  wind 
from  the  northwest  as  the  direction  of  the 
storm  shifted.  The  man  walked  steadily 
enough,  his  head  held  high.  What  torment 
was  hidden  behind  his  proud  bearing  no  man 
could  guess.  He  went  to  the  kitchen,  and 
Euth  told  him  that  John  must  be  near  done 
with  the  milking.  Evered  nodded,  as  though 
he  were  tired.  Euth  saw  that  he  was  wet, 
and  when  he  took  off  his  coat  and  hat  she 
brought  him  a  cup  of  steaming  tea  and  made 
him  drink  it.  He  said,  "Thanks,  Euthie!" 
And  he  took  the  cup  from  her  hands  and 
sipped  it  slowly,  the  hot  liquid  bringing  back 
his  strength. 

His  trousers  were  soaked  through  at  the 
knees.  She  bade  him  go  in  and  change  them ; 
and  he  went  to  his  room.  When  John  came 
from  the  barn  Evered  had  not  yet  come  out 

173 


174  EVERED 

into  the  kitchen  again.  Supper  was  ready 
and  Euth  went  to  his  door  and  called  to  him. 

He  came  out;  and  both  Euth  and  John  saw 
the  strange  light  in  the  man's  eyes.  He  did 
not  speak  and  they  did  not  speak  to  him. 
There  was  that  about  him  which  held  them 
silent.  He  ate  a  little,  then  went  to  his  room 
again  and  shut  the  door.  They  could  hear 
him  for  a  little  while,  walking  to  and  fro. 
Then  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  ceased. 

Only  one  door  lay  between  his  room  and 
the  kitchen;  and  unconsciously  the  two 
hushed  their  voices,  so  that  they  might  not 
disturb  him.  John  got  into  dry  clothes,  then 
helped  Euth  with  the  dishes,  brought  fresh 
water  from  the  pump  to  fill  the  tank  at  the 
end  of  the  stove,  brought  wood  for  the  morn 
ing,  turned  the  separator,  and  finally  sat  smok 
ing  while  she  cleaned  the  parts  of  that  instru 
ment.  They  spoke  now  and  then;  but  there 
was  some  constraint  between  them.  Both  of 
them  were  thinking  of  Evered. 

Euth,  her  work  finished,  came  and  sat  down 
by  the  stove  with  a  basket  of  socks  to  be 
darned,  and  her  needle  began  to  move  care 
fully  to  and  fro  in  the  gaping  holes  she 
stretched  across  her  darning  egg. 


EVERED  175 

John  asked  her  in  a  low  voice,  "Did  you 
mark  trouble  in  my  father  this  night!" 

She  looked  at  him,  concern  in  her  eyes. 
"Yes.  There  was  something.  He  seemed 
happier,  somehow;  yet  very  sad  too." 

He  said,  "His  eyes  were  shining,  like." 

"I  saw,"  she  agreed. 

John    smoked    for    a    little    while.      Then:' 
"I'm  wondering  what  it  is,"  he  murmured. 
"Something  has  happened  to  him." 

Buth,  head  bent  above  her  work,  remem 
bered  Damn's  coming,  his  summons.  But 
she  said  nothing  till  John  asked:  "Do  you 
know  what  it  was!" 

"He  was  talking  with  Fred,"  she  said;  and 
slowly,  cheeks  rosy,  amended  herself:  "With 
Mr.  Darrin." 

John  nodded.  "I  knew  they  were  away 
together." 

"Mr.  Darrin  came  for  him,"  said  Buth. 
"He  took  your  father  away." 

They  said  no  more  of  the  matter,  for  there 
was  nothing  more  to  say;  but  they  thought  a 
great  deal.  Now  and  then  they  spoke  of  other 
things.  Outside  the  house  the  wind  was 
whistling  and  lashing  the  weatherboards  with 
rain;  and  after  a  while  the  sharp  sound  of 


176  EVERED 

the  raindrops  was  intensified  to  a  clatter  and 
John  said,  "It's  turned  to  hail.  There'll  be 
snow  by  morning." 

The  girl  thought  of  Darrin.  "He'll  be  wet 
and  cold  out  in  this.  He  ought  to  come  up 
to  the  barn." 

John  smiled.  "He  can  care  for  himself.  His 
shelter  will  turn  this,  easy.  He'd  come  if 
he  wanted  to  come." 

His  tone  was  friendly  and  Euth  asked, 
watching  him,  "You  like  Mr.  Darrin,  don't 
you!" 

"Yes,"  John  told  her.  "Yes,"  he  said 
slowly;  "I  like  the  man." 

What  pain  the  words  cost  him  he  hid  from 
her  eyes  altogether.  She  was,  vaguely,  a  little 
disappointed.  She  had  not  wanted  John  to 
like  Darrin;  and  yet  she — loved  the  man.  She 
must  love  him;  she  had  longed  for  him  so. 
Thinking  of  him  as  she  sat  here  with  her 
mending  in  her  lap  she  felt  again  that  unac 
countable  pang  of  loneliness.  And  the  girl 
looked  side  wise  at  John.  John  was  watching 
the  little  flames  that  showed  through  the  grate 
in  the  front  of  the  stove.  He  seemed  to  pay 
no  heed  to  her. 

After  a  while  Euth  said  she  would  go  to 


EVERED  177 

bed ;  and  she  put  away  her  basket  of  mending, 
set  her  chair  in  place  by  the  table  and  went 
to  the  door  that  led  toward  her  own  room. 
John,  still  sitting  by  the  stove,  had  not  turned. 
She  stood  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment, 
watching  him.  There  was  a  curious  yearning 
in  her  eyes. 

By  and  by  she  said  softly,  "Good  night, 
John/' 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  turned 
toward  her  and  stood  there.  "Good  night, 
Ruth,"  he  ^answered. 

She  did  not  close  the  door  between  them; 
and  after  a  moment,  as  though  without  his 
own  volition,  his  feet  moved.  He  came  toward 
her,  came  nearer  where  she  stood. 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  stay  or  to  go. 
The  girl  was  shaken,  unsure  of  herself,  afraid 
of  her  own  impulses.  And  then  she  remem 
bered  that  she  loved  Darrin,  must  love  him. 
And  she  stepped  back  and  shut  the  door 
slowly  between  them.  Even  with  the  door 
shut  she  stood  still,  listening;  and  she  heard 
John  turn  and  go  back  to  his  chair  and  sit 
down. 

She  was  swept  by  an  unaccountable  wave 
of  angry  disappointment.  And  the  girl 


178  EVERED 

turned  into  her  room  and  with  quick  sharp 
movements  loosed  her  garments  and  put  them 
aside  and  made  herself  ready  for  bed.  She 
blew  out  the  light  and  lay  down.  But  her 
eyes  were  wide,  and  she  was  wholly  without 
desire  to  sleep.  And  by  and  by  she  began  to 
cry,  for  no  reason  she  could  name.  She  was 
oppressed  by  a  terrible  weight  of  sorrow,  in 
definable.  It  was  as  though  this  great  sorrow 
were  in  the  very  air  about  her.  It  was,  she 
thought  once  gropingly,  as  though  someone 
near  her  were  dying  in  the  night.  Once  be 
fore  she  slept  she  heard  Evered  moving  to 
and  fro  in  his  room,  adjoining  hers. 

John  had  no  heart  for  sleep  that  night.  He 
sat  in  the  kitchen  alone  for  a  long  time;  and 
he  went  to  bed  at  last,  not  because  he  was 
sleepy,  but  because  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  He  put  wood  in  the  stove  and  shut  it 
tightly;  there  would  be  some  fire  there  in  the 
morning.  He  put  the  cats  into  the  shed  and 
locked  the  outer  door,  and  so  went  at  last 
to  his  room.  The  man  undressed  slowly  and 
blew  out  his  light.  When  once  he  was  abed 
the  healthy  habit  of  his  lusty  youth  put  him 
quickly  to  sleep.  He  slept  with  scarce  a 
dream  till  an  hour  before  dawn,  and  woke 


EVERED  179 

then,  and  rose  to  dress  for  the  morning's 
chores. 

From  his  window,  even  before  the  light 
came,  he  saw  that  some  wet  snow  had  fallen 
during  the  night.  When  he  had  made  the 
fire  in  the  kitchen  and  filled  the  kettle  he  put 
on  his  boots  and  went  to  the  barn.  There 
were  inches  of  snow  and  half -frozen  mud  in 
the  barnyard.  It  was  cold  and  dreary  in  the 
open.  A  little  snow  fell  fitfully  now  and  then. 

Within  the  barn  the  sweet  odors  that  he 
loved  greeted  him.  The  place  steamed  pleas 
antly  with  the  body  warmth  of  the  cattle  and 
the  horse  stabled  there ;  and  he  heard  the  pigs 
squealing  softly,  as  though  in  their  sleep,  in 
their  winter  pen  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
barn  floor.  He  lighted  his  lantern  and  hung 
it  to  a  peg  and  fed  the  stock — a  little  grain 
to  the  horse,  Eay  to  the  cows,  some  cut-up 
squash  and  a  basketful  of  beets  to  the  pigs. 
As  an  afterthought  he  gave  beets  to  the  cows 
as  well.  John  worked  swiftly,  cleaned  up  the 
horse's  stall  and  the  tie-up  where  the  line  of 
cows  was  secured.  After  he  was  done  here 
he  fed  the  bull,  the  red  bull  in  its  strong  stall ; 
and  while  the  creature  ate  he  cleaned  the  place 
put  fresh  bedding  in  upon  the  floor,  The 


180  EVERED 

bull  seemed  undisturbed  by  his  presence;  it 
turned  its  great  head  now  and  then  to  look 
at  him  with  steady  eyes,  but  there  was  no  ug 
liness  in  its  movements.  When  he  had  finished 
his  work  John  stroked  the  great  creature's 
flank  and  shoulder  and  neck  for  a  moment. 

He  said  under  his  breath,  "You're  all  right, 
old  boy.  You're  all  right.  You're  clever,  by 
golly.  Clever  as  a  cow." 

When  Fraternity  says  a  beast  is  clever  it 
means  gentle  and  kind  rather  than  shrewd. 
The  bull  seemed  to  understand  what  John 
said;  or  what  lay  in  his  tone.  The  great 
head  turned  and  pressed  against  him,  not 
roughly.  John  stroked  it  a  minute  more, 
then  left  the  stall  and  took  a  last  look 
round  to  be  sure  he  had  forgotten  nothing, 
and  then  went  to  the  house.  Day  was  com 
ing  now;  there  was  a  ghostly  gray  light  in 
the  farmyard.  And  the  snow  had  turned,  for 
the  time,  to  a  drizzling,  sleeting  sprinkle  of 
rain. 

In  the  kitchen  he  found  Euth  moving  about ; 
and  she  gave  him  the  milk  pails  and  he  went 
out  to  milk.  There  were  only  three  cows 
giving  milk  at  that  time.  Two  would  come 
in  in  December;  but  for  the  present  milking 


EVERED  181 

was  a  small  chore.  John  was  not  long  about 
it,  but  by  the  time  he  had  finished  and  re 
turned  to  the  kitchen  breakfast  was  almost 
ready.  Evered  had  not  yet  come  from  his 
room. 

Euth  half  whispered:  "He  was  up  in  the 
night.  I  think  he's  asleep.  I'm  going  to  let 
him  sleep  a  while." 

John  nodded.     "All  right,"  he  agreed. 

"He's  so  tired,"  said  Ruth;  and  there  was 
a  gentleness  in  her  tone  which  made  John 
look  at  her  with  some  surprise.  She  had  not 
spoken  gently  of  Evered  for  months  past. 

They  separated  the  milk  and  gave  the  cats 
their  morning  ration  and  then  they  sat  them 
selves  down  and  breakfasted.  When  they 
were  half  done  Euth  saw  that  day  was  fully 
come,  and  blew  out  the  lamp  upon  the  table 
between  them.  It  left  the  kitchen  so  bleak 
and  cheerless,  however,  that  she  lighted  it 
again. 

"I  don't  like  a  day  like  this,"  she  said. 
"It's  ugly.  Everything  is  ugly.  It  makes 
me  nervous,  somehow." 

She  shivered  a  little  and  looked  about  her 
as  though  she  felt  some  fearful  thing  at 
her  very  shoulder.  John,  more  phlegmatic, 


182  EVERED 

watched  her  in  some  bewilderment.  Kuth 
was  not  usually  nervous. 

They  had  not  heard  Evered  stirring;  and 
all  that  morning  they  moved  on  tiptoe  about 
their  work.  John  forebore  to  split  wood  in 
the  shed,  his  usual  task  on  stormy  days,  lest 
he  waken  his  father.  Kuth  handled  the  dishes 
gently,  careful  not  to  rattle  them;  she  swept 
the  floor  with  easy  strokes  that  made  but  little 
sound.  When  Evered  came  into  the  kitchen, 
a  little  before  noon,  she  and  John  looked  at 
the  man  with  quick  curiosity,  not  knowing 
what  they  would  see. 

They  saw  only  that  Evered 's  head  was  held 
a  little  higher  than  was  his  custom  of  late; 
they  saw  that  his  eyes  were  sober  and  clear 
and  thoughtful;  they  marked  that  his  voice 
was  gentle.  He  had  dinner  with  them,  speak 
ing  little,  then  went  back  to  his  room. 

Soon  after  dinner  Darrin  came  to  the  door. 
Euth  asked  him  in,  but  the  man  would  not 
come.  John  was  in  the  barn;  and  Kuth,  a 
little  uneasy  and  afraid  before  this  man, 
wished  John  were  here. 

She  asked  Darrin,  "Were  you  all  right, 
last  night?" 

He  said  he  had  been  comfortable;  that  be 


EVERED  183 

had  been  able  to  keep  dry.  He  had  come  on 
no  definite  errand. 

"I  just — wanted  to  see  yon,"  he  said. 

Enth  made  no  reply,  because  she  did  not 
know  what  to  say. 

Darrin  asked,  "Are  you  all  all  right  here?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  told  him. 

He  looked  to  right  and  left,  his  eyes  unable 
to  meet  hers.  "Is  Evered  all  right?"  he 
asked. 

She  felt  the  tension  in  his  voice  without 
understanding  it.  "Yes,"  she  said  uncer 
tainly;  and  then:  "Why?" 

He  tried  to  laugh.  "Why,  nothing.  Where's 
John?" 

Euth  told  him  John  was  in  the  barn  and 
Darrin  went  out  there.  Euth  was  left  alone 
in  the  house.  Once  or  twice  during  the  after 
noon  she  saw  John  and  Darrin  in  the  barn 
door.  They  seemed  to  be  doing  nothing,  sit 
ting  in  the  shelter  there,  whittling,  smoking, 
talking  slowly. 

She  felt  the  presence  of  Evered  in  his  room, 
a  presence  like  a  brooding  sorrow.  It  op 
pressed  her.  She  became  nervous,  restless, 
moving  aimlessly  to  and  fro,  and  once  she 
went  to  her  room  for  something  and  found 


184  EVERED 

herself  crying.  She  brushed  away  the  tears 
impatiently,  unable  to  understand.  But  she 
was  afraid.  There  was  something  dreadful 
in  the  very  air  of  the  house. 

At  noon  the  wind  had  turned  colder  and 
for  a  time  the  sleet  and  rain  altogether  ceased. 
The  temperature  was  dropping;  crystals  of 
ice  formed  on  the  puddles  in  the  barnyard, 
and  the  patches  of  old  snow  which  lay  here 
and  there  stiffened  like  hot  metal  hardening 
in  a  mold.  Then  with  the  abrupt  and  surpris 
ing  effect  of  a  stage  transformation  snow 
began  to  come  down  from  the  lowering,  driv 
ing  clouds.  This  was  in  its  way  a  whole 
hearted  snowstorm,  in  some  contrast  to  the 
miserable  drizzle  of  the  night.  It  was  fine 
and  wet,  and  hard-driven  by  the  wind.  There 
were  times  when  the  barn,  a  little  way  from 
the  house,  was  obscured  by  the  flying  flakes; 
and  the  trees  beyond  were  wholly  hidden  be 
hind  a  veil  of  white. 

Ruth  went  about  the  house  making  sure 
that  the  windows  were  snug.  From  a  front 
window  she  saw  that  the  storm  had  thinned  in 
that  direction.  She  was  able  to  look  down  into 
the  orchard,  which  lay  a  little  below  the  house, 
sloping  away  toward  North  Fraternity.  The 


EVERED  185 

nearer  trees  were  plain,  the  others  were  hidden 
from  sight. 

The  driving  wind  plastered  this  wet  snow 
against  everything  it  touched.  One  side  of 
every  tree,  one  side  of  every  twig  assumed 
a  garment  of  white.  The  windows  which  the 
wind  struck  were  opaque  with  it.  When  Euth 
went  back  to  the  kitchen  she  saw  that  a 
whole  side  of  the  barn  was  so  completely 
covered  by  the  snow  blanket  that  the  dark 
shingling  was  altogether  hidden.  Against  the 
white  background  of  the  storm  it  was  as 
though  this  side  of  the  barn  had  ceased  to 
exist.  The  illusion  was  so  abrupt  that  for  a 
moment  it  startled  her. 

The  snow  continued  to  fall  for  much  of  the 
afternoon;  then  the  storm  drifted  past  them 
and  the  hills  all  about  were  lighted  up,  not 
by  the  sun  itself,  but  by  an  eerie  blue  light, 
which  may  have  been  the  sun  refracted  and 
reflected  by  the  snow  that  was  still  in  the  air 
above.  The  storm  had  left  a  snowy  covering 
upon  the  world;  and  even  this  white  blanket 
had  a  bluish  tinge.  Snow  clung  to  windward 
of  every  tree  and  rock  and  building.  Even 
the  clothesline  in  the  yard  beside  the  house 
was  hung  with  it. 


186  EVERED 

At  first,  when  the  storm  had  bnt  just  passed, 
the  scene  was  very  beautiful;  but  in  the  blue 
light  it  was  pitilessly,  bleakly  cold.  Then 
distantly  the  sun  appeared.  Kuth  saw  it  first 
indirectly.  Down  the  valley  to  the  southward, 
a  valley  like  a  groove  between  two  hills,  the 
low  scurrying  clouds  began  to  lift;  and  so 
presently  the  end  of  the  valley  was  revealed, 
and  Kuth  was  able  to  look  through  beneath 
the  screen  of  clouds,  and  she  could  see  the 
slopes  of  a  distant  hill  where  the  snow  had 
fallen  lightly,  brilliantly  illumined  by  the  gold 
en  sun — gold  on  the  white  of  the  snow  and 
the  brown  and  the  green  of  grass  and  of  trees. 
Mystically  beautiful — blue  sky  in  the  distance 
there;  and,  between,  the  sun-dappled  hills. 
The  scene  was  made  more  gorgeous  by  the 
somber  light  which  still  lay  about  the  farm. 

Then  the  clouds  lifted  farther  and  the  sun 
came  nearer.  A  little  before  sunset  blue  skies 
showed  overhead,  the  sun  streamed  across  the 
farm,  the  snow  that  had  stuck  against  every 
thing  it  touched  began  to  sag  and  drop  away; 
and  the  dripping  of  melting  snow  sounded 
cheerfully  in  the  stillness  of  the  late  afternoon. 

Kuth  saw  John  and  Darrin  in  the  farm 
yard  talking  together,  watching  the  skies. 


EVERED  187 

They  came  toward  the  honse  and  John  bade 
her  come  out  to  see.  The  three  of  them 
walked  round  to  the  front,  where  the  eye 
might  reach  for  miles  into  infinite  vistas  of 
beauty.  They  stood  there  for  a  little  time. 

The  dropping  sun  bathed  all  the  land  in 
splendor;  the  winds  had  passed,  the  air  was 
still  as  honey.  Earth  was  become  a  thing  of 
glory  beyond  compare. 

They  were  still  standing  here  when  they 
heard  the  hoarse  and  furious  bellow  of  the 
great  red  bull. 


XVIII 

EVERED  had  not  slept  the  night  before. 
There  was  no  sleep  in  the  man.  And 
this  was  not  because  he  was  torn  and 
agonized;  it  was  because  he  had  never  been 
so  fully  alive,  so  alert  of  mind  and  body. 

Damn's  accusation  had  come  to  him  as 
no  shock;  Darrin's  proof  that  his  wife  was 
loyal  had  come  as  no  surprise.  He  had  ex 
pected  neither;  yet  when  they  came  it  seemed 
to  the  man  that  he  must  have  known  they 
would  come.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the 
world  must  know  what  he  had  done;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  always  have 
known  his  wife  was — his  wife  forever. 

His  principal  reaction  was  a  great  relief 
of  spirit.  He  was  unhappy,  sorrowful;  yet 
there  was  a  pleasant  ease  and  solace  in  his 
very  unhappiness.  For  he  was  rid  now,  at 
last,  of  doubts  and  of  uncertainties;  his  mind 
was  no  more  beclouded;  there  were  no  more 
shadows  of  mystery  and  questioning.  All 
was  clear  before  him;  all  that  there  was  to 

188 


.        EVERED  189 

know  he  knew.  And  —  his  secret  need  no 
longer  be  borne  alone.  Darrin  knew;  it  was 
as  though  the  whole  world  knew.  He  was 
indescribably  relieved  by  this  certainty. 

He  did  not  at  first  look  into  the  future  at 
all.  He  let  himself  breathe  the  present.  He 
came  back  to  the  farm  and  ate  his  supper 
and  went  to  his  room;  and  there  was  some 
thing  that  sang  softly  within  him.  It  was 
almost  as  though  his  wife  waited  for  him, 
comfortingly,  there.  Physically  a  little  rest 
less,  he  moved  about  for  a  time;  but  his  mind 
was  steady,  his  thoughts  were  calm. 

His  thoughts  were  memories,  harking  back 
ward  through  the  years. 

Evered  was  at  this  time  almost  fifty  years 
old.  He  was  born  in  North  Fraternity,  in  the 
house  of  his  mother's  father,  to  which  she 
had  gone  when  her  time  came  near.  Evered 's 
own  father  had  died  weeks  before,  in  the  quiet 
fashion  of  the  countryside.  That  had  been 
on  this  hillside  farm  above  the  swamp,  which 
Evered 's  father  had  owned.  His  mother 
stayed  upon  the  farm  for  a  little,  and  when 
the  time  came  she  went  to  her  home,  and  when 
Evered  was  a  month  old  she  had  brought 
him  back  to  the  farm  again. 


190  EVERED 

She  died,  Evered  remembered,  when  he  was 
still  a  boy,  nine  or  ten  years  old.  She  had 
not  married  a  second  time,  but  her  brother 
had  come  to  live  with  her,  and  he  survived 
her  and  kept  the  farm  alive  and  producing. 
He  taught  Evered  the  work  that  lay  before 
him.  He  had  been  a  butcher,  and  it  was  from 
him  Evered  learned  the  trade.  A  kind  man, 
Evered  remembered,  but  not  over  wise;  and 
he  had  lacked  understanding  of  the  boy. 

Evered  had  been  a  brilliant  boy,  active  and 
wholly  alive,  his  mind  alert  and  keen,  his 
muscles  quick,  his  temper  sharp.  Yet  his 
anger  was  accustomed  to  pass  quickly,  so 
that  he  had  in  him  the  stuff  that  makes 
friends;  and  he  had  friends  in  those  days. 
Still  in  his  teens  he  won  the  friendship  of  the 
older  men,  even  as  he  dominated  the  boys  of 
his  own  age.  He  and  Lee  Motley  had  grown 
up  together.  There  had  always  been  close 
sympathy  between  these  two. 

When  he  was  nineteen  he  married,  in  the 
adventurous  spirit  of  youth,  a  girl  of  the  hills ; 
a  simple  lovely  child,  not  so  old  as  he.  Mar 
ried  her  gaily,  brought  her  home  gaily.  There 
had  been  affection  between  them,  he  knew 
now,  but  nothing  more.  He  had  thought  him- 


EVERED  191 

self  heartbroken  when,  their  boy  child  still  a 
baby,  she  had  died.  But  a  year  later  he  met 
Mary  MacLure,  and  there  had  never  been 
any  other  woman  in  the  world  for  him  there 
after. 

Evered's  memories  were  very  vivid;  it 
needed  no  effort  to  bring  back  to  him  Mary's 
face  as  he  first  saw  her.  A  dance  in  the  big 
hall  halfway  from  North  Fraternity  to  Mont- 
ville.  She  came  late,  two  men  with  her;  and 
Evered  saw  her  come  into  the  door.  He  had 
come  alone  to  the  dance;  he  was  free  to  de 
vote  himself  to  her,  and  within  the  half  hour 
he  had  swept  all  others  aside,  and  he  and 
Mary  MacLnre  danced  and  danced  together, 
while  their  pulses  sang  in  the  soft  air  of  the 
night,  and  their  eyes,  meeting,  glowed  and 
glowed. 

Fraternity  still  talked  of  that  swift,  hot 
courtship.  Evered  had  fought  two  men  for 
her,  and  that  fight  was  well  remembered. 
He  had  fought  for  a  clear  field,  and  won  it, 
though  Mary  MacLure  scolded  him  for  the 
winning,  as  long  as  she  had  heart  to  scold 
this  man.  From  his  first  moment  with  her 
Evered  had  been  lifted  out  of  himself  by  the 
emotions  she  awoke  in  him.  He  loved  her 


192  EVERED 

hotly  and  jealously  and  passionately;  and  in 
due  course  he  won  her. 

Not  too  quickly,  for  Mary  MacLure  knew 
her  worth  and  knew  how  to  make  herself  dear 
to  him.  She  humbled  him,  and  at  first  he 
suffered  this,  till  one  night  he  came  to  her 
house  when  the  flowers  were  abloom  and  the 
air  was  warm  as  a  caress.  And  at  first,  seated 
on  the  steps  of  her  porch  with  the  man  at 
her  feet,  she  teased  him  lightly  and  provok- 
ingly,  till  he  rose  and  stood  above  her.  Some 
thing  made  her  rise  too;  and  then  she  was  in 
his  arms,  lips  yielding  to  his,  trembling  to 
his  ardent  whispers.  For  long  minutes  they 
stood  so,  conscious  only  of  each  other,  drunk 
with  the  mutual  ecstasy  of  conquest  and  of 
surrender,  tempestuously  embracing. 

They  were  married,  and  he  brought  her 
home  to  the  farm  above  the  swamp,  and  be 
cause  he  loved  her  so  well,  because  he  loved 
her  too  well,  he  had  watched  over  her  with 
jealous  eyes,  had  guarded  her.  She  became  a 
recluse.  An  isolation  grew  up  about  them. 
Evered  wanted  no  human  being  in  his  life 
but  her;  and  when  the  ardor  of  his  love  could 
find  no  other  vent,  it  showed  itself  in  cruel 
gibes  at  her,  in  reckless  words. 


EVERED  193 

Youth  was  still  hot  in  the  man.  He  and 
Mary  might  have  weathered  this  hard  period 
of  adjustment,  might  have  come  to  a  quiet 
happiness  together;  but  it  was  in  these  years 
that  Evered  killed  Dave  Eiggs,  a  thing  half 
accident.  He  had  gone  forth  that  day  with 
bitterness  in  his  heart;  he  had  quarreled  with 
Mary,  and  hated  himself  for  it;  and  hated  by 
proxy  all  the  world  besides.  Eiggs  irritated 
him  profoundly,  roused  the  quick  anger  in 
the  man.  And  when  the  hot  clouds  cleared 
from  before  his  eyes  Eiggs  was  dead. 

A  thing  that  could  not  be  undone,  it  had 
molded  Evered 's  soul  into  harsh  and  rugged 
lines.  It  was  true,  as  he  had  told  Darrin, 
that  he  had  sought  to  make  some  amends; 
had  offered  help  to  the  dead  man's  wife,  first 
openly,  and  then — when  she  cursed  him  from 
her  door — in  secret,  hidden  ways.  But  she 
left  Fraternity  and  took  her  child,  and  they 
lost  themselves  in  the  outer  world. 

So  Evered  could  not  ease  his  conscience  by 
the  reparation  he  longed  to  make;  and  the 
thing  lay  with  him  always  through  the  years 
thereafter.  A  thing  fit  to  change  a  man  in 
unpleasant  fashion,  the  killing  had  shaped 


194  EVERED 

Evered's  whole  life — to  this  black  end  that 
lay  before  him. 

The  man  during  this  long  night  alone 
in  his  room  thought  back  through  all  the 
years;  and  it  was  as  though  he  sat  in  judg 
ment  on  himself.  There  was,  there  had  al 
ways  been  a  native  justice  in  him;  he  never 
deceived  his  own  heart,  never  palliated  even 
to  himself  his  own  ill  deeds.  There  was  no 
question  in  his  mind  now.  He  knew  the  thing 
he  had  done  in  all  its  ugly  lights.  And  as  he 
thought  of  it,  sitting  beside  his  bed,  he  played 
with  the  heavy  knife  which  he  had  carried 
all  these  years.  He  fondled  the  thing  in  his 
hand,  eyes  half  closed  as  he  stared  at  it. 
He  was  not  conscious  that  he  held  it.  Yet  it 
had  become  almost  a  part  of  him  through 
long  habit;  and  it  was  as  much  a  part  of  him 
now  as  his  own  hand  that  held  it.  The  heavy 
haft  balanced  so  familiarly. 

The  night,  and  then  the  day.  A  steady 
calm  possessed  him.  His  memories  flowed 
smoothly  past,  like  the  eternal  cycle  of  the 
days.  The  man's  face  did  not  change;  he  was 
expressionless.  He  was  sunk  so  deep  in  his 
own  thoughts  that  the  turmoil  there  did  not 
disturb  his  outward  aspect.  His  countenance 


EVERED  195 

was  grave  and  still.  No  tears  flowed;  this 
was  no  time  for  tears.  It  was  an  hour  too 
deep  for  tears,  a  sorrow  beyond  weeping. 

During  the  storm  that  day  he  went  to  the 
window  now  and  then.  And  once  in  the  morn 
ing  he  heard  the  red  bull  bellow  in  its  pen; 
and  once  or  twice  thereafter,  as  the  afternoon 
drove  slowly  on.  Each  time  he  heard  this 
sound  it  was  as  though  the  man's  attention 
was  caught  and  held.  He  stood  still  in  a  lis 
tening  attitude,  as  though  waiting  for  the 
bellow  to  be  repeated;  and  it  would  be  min 
utes  on  end  before  his  eyes  clouded  with  his 
own  thoughts  again. 

It  would  be  easy  to  say  that  Evered  during 
this  solitary  night  and  day  went  mad  with 
grief  and  self -condemning,  but  it  would  not  be 
true.  The  man  was  never  more  sane.  His 
thoughts  were  profound,  but  they  were  quiet 
and  slow  and  unperturbed.  They  were  al 
most  impersonal.  There  is  in  most  men — 
though  in  few  women — this  power  to  with 
draw  out  of  oneself  or  into  an  inner  deeper 
self;  this  power  to  stand  as  spectator  of  one's 
own  actions.  It  is  a  manifestation  of  a  deeper, 
more  remote  consciousness.  It  is  as  though 
there  were  a  man  within  a  man.  And  this 


196  EVERED 

inner  soul  has  no  emotions.  It  is  unmoved 
by  love  or  passion,  by  anger  or  hatred,  by 
sorrow  or  grief,  by  hunger  or  by  thirst.  It 
watches  warm  caresses,  it  hears  ardent  words, 
it  sees  fierce  blows,  and  listens  to  curses  and 
lamentations  with  the  same  inscrutable  and 
immutable  calm.  It  can  approve,  it  can  con 
demn;  but  it  neither  rejoices  nor  bemoans.  It 
is  always  conscious  that  the  moment  is  noth 
ing,  eternity  everything;  that  the  whole  alone 
has  portent  and  importance.  This  inner  self 
has  a  depth  beyond  plumbing ;  it  has  a  strength 
unshakable;  it  has  understanding  beyond  be 
lief.  It  is  not  conscience,  for  it  sets  itself  up 
as  no  arbiter  of  acts  or  deeds.  It  is  simply  a 
consciousness  that  that  which  is  done  is  good 
or  evil,  kind  or  harsh,  wise  or  foolish.  This 
calm  inner  soul  of  souls  might  be  called  God 
in  man. 

Evered  this  day  lived  in  this  inner  con 
sciousness.  As  though  he  sat  remote  above 
the  stream  he  watched  the  years  of  his  mem 
ories  flow  by.  He  was,  after  the  first  moments, 
torn  by  no  racking  grief  and  wrenched  by 
no  remorseful  torments  and  burned  by  no 
agonizing  fires.  He  was  without  emotion,  but 
not  without  judgment  and  not  without  deci- 


EVERED  197 

sion.  He  moved  through  his  thoughts  as 
though  to  a  definitely  appointed  and  pre-de- 
termined  end.  A  strange  numbness  possessed 
him,  in  which  only  his  mind  was  alive. 

He  did  not  pity  himself;  neither  did  he 
damn  himself.  He  did  not  pray  that  he  might 
cancel  all  the  past,  for  this  inner  conscious 
ness  knew  the  past  could  never  be  canceled. 
He  simply  thought  upon  it,  with  grave  and 
sober  consideration. 

When  his  thoughts  evidenced  themselves  in 
actions  it  was  done  slowly,  and  as  though  he  did 
know  not  what  he  did.  He  got  up  from  where 
he  had  been  sitting  and  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  The  snow  had  ceased ;  the  sun 
was  breaking  through.  The  world  was  never 
more  beautiful,  never  more  gloriously  white 
and  clean. 

The  man  had  held  in  his  hands  for  most  of 
the  day  that  heavy  knife  of  his.  He  put  it 
now  back  in  its  sheath.  Then  he  took  off  his 
shirt  and  washed  himself.  There  was  no  fire 
of  purpose  in  his  eye;  he  was  utterly  calm 
and  unhurried. 

He  put  on  a  clean  shirt.  It  was  checked 
blue  and  white.  Mary  Evered  had  made  it 
for  him,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  make  most 


198  EVERED 

of  his  clothes.  When  it  was  buttoned  he 
drew  his  belt  about  him  and  buckled  it  snug. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  took  off  his  slippers — 
old,  faded,  rundown  things  that  had  eased  his 
tired  feet  night  by  night  for  years.  He  took 
off  these  slippers  and  put  on  hobnailed  shoes, 
lacing  them  securely. 

When  this  was  done  the  man  stood  for  a 
little  in  the  room,  and  he  looked  steadily  be 
fore  him.  His  eyes  did  not  move  to  this  side 
and  that;  there  was  no  suggestion  that  he  was 
taking  farewell  of  the  familiar  things  about 
him.  It  was  more  as  though  he  looked  upon 
something  which  other  eyes  could  never  see. 
And  his  face  lighted  a  little ;  it  was  near  smil 
ing.  There  was  peace  in  it. 

I  do  not  believe  that  there  was  any  deadly 
purpose  in  Evered's  heart  when  he  left  his 
room.  Fraternity  thinks  so;  Fraternity  has 
never  thought  anything  else  about  the  matter. 
He  took  his  knife,  in  its  sheath.  That  is  proof 
enough  for  Fraternity.  "He  went  to  do  the 
bull,  and  the  bull  done  him."  That  is  what 
they  say,  have  always  said. 

It  does  not  occur  to  them  that  the  man  took 
the  knife  because  he  was  a  man;  because  it 
was  not  in  him  to  lay  down  his  life  supinely; 


EVERED  199 

because  battle  had  always  been  in  Ms  blood 
and  was  his  instinct.  It  does  not  occur  to 
them  that  there  was  in  Evered 's  mind  this 
day  the  purpose  of  atonement,  and  nothing 
more.  For  Fraternity  had  never  plumbed 
the  man,  had  never  understood  him. 

No  matter.  No  need  to  dig  for  hidden 
things.  Enough  to  know  what  Evered  did. 

He  went  from  his  room  into  the  kitchen. 
No  one  was  there.  Euth  and  John  and  Darrin 
were  outside  in  front  of  the  house.  Thus  they 
did  not  see  him  come  out  into  the  barnyard 
and  go  steadily  and  surely  across  and  past 
the  corner  of  the  barn,  till  he  came  to  the 
high-boarded  walls  of  the  red  bull's  pen. 

He  put  his  hand  against  these  board  walls 
for  a  moment,  with  a  gesture  not  unlike  that 
of  a  blind  man.  One  watching  would  have 
supposed  that  he  walked  unseeingly  or  that 
his  eyes  were  closed.  He  went  along  the  wall 
of  the  pen  until  he  came  to  the  narrow  gate, 
set  between  two  of  the  cedar  posts,  through 
which  it  was  possible  to  enter. 

Evered  opened  this  gate,  stepped  inside 
the  pen  and  shut  the  gate  behind  him.  He 
took  half  a  dozen  paces  forward,  into  the 
center  of  the  inclosure,  and  stood  still. 


200  EVERED 

The  red  bull  had  heard  the  gate  open;  and 
the  creature  turned  in  its  stall  and  came  to  the 
door  between  stall  and  pen.  It  saw  Evered 
standing  there;  and  after  a  moment  the  beast 
came  slowly  out,  moving  one  foot  at  a  time, 
carefully,  like  a  watchful  antagonist — came 
out  till  it  was  clear  of  the  stall ;  till  it  and  the 
man  faced  each  other,  not  twenty  feet  apart. 

After  a  moment  the  bull  lowered  its  great 
head  and  emitted  a  harsh  and  angry  bellow 
that  was  like  a  roar. 


XIX 

fT^HE  beauty  of  the  whole  world  in  this 
hour  should  be  remembered.  Houses, 
trees,  walls,  shrubs,  knolls  —  all  were 
overlaid  with  the  snow  blanket  inches  deep. 
It  had  been  faintly  blue,  this  carpet  of  snow, 
in  the  first  moments  after  the  storm  passed, 
and  before  the  sun  had  broken  through.  When 
the  sun  illumined  the  hill  about  the  farm  the 
snow  was  dazzling  white,  blinding  the  eye 
with  a  thousand  gleams,  as  though  it  were 
diamond  dust  spread  all  about  them.  After 
ward,  when  John  and  Darrin  and  Ruth  had 
passed  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  look 
across  the  valley  and  away,  the  sun  descend 
ing  lost  its  white  glare;  its  rays  took  on  a 
crimson  hue.  Where  they  struck  the  snow 
fairly  it  was  rose  pink;  where  shadows  lay 
the  blue  was  coming  back  again.  The  air  was 
so  clear  that  it  seemed  not  to  exist,  yet  did 
exist  as  a  living,  pulsing  color  which  was  all 
about — faint,  hardly  to  be  seen. 

The  three   stood   silent,  watching   all  this. 

201 


202  EVERED 

Ruth  could  not  have  spoken  if  she  had 
wished  to  do  so;  she  could  scarce  breathe. 
Darrin  watched  unseeingly,  automatically,  his 
thoughts  busy  elsewhere.  John  stood  still, 
and  his  eyes  were  narrowed  and  his  face 
was  faintly  flushed,  either  by  the  sun's  light 
or  by  the  intoxication  of  beauty  which  was 
spread  before  him.  And  they  were  standing 
thus  when  there  came  to  them  through  the 
still,  liquid  air  the  bellow  of  the  bull. 

John  and  Ruth  reacted  automatically  to 
that  sound.  They  were  accustomed  to  the 
beast;  they  could  to  some  extent  distinguish 
between  its  outcries,  guess  at  its  moods  from 
them.  Its  roaring  was  always  frightful  to 
an  unaccustomed  ear;  but  they  were  used  to 
it,  were  disturbed  only  by  some  foreign  note 
in  the  sound.  They  both  knew  now  that  the 
bull  was  murderously  angry.  They  did  not 
know,  had  no  way  of  knowing  what  had  roused 
it.  It  might  be  a  dog,  a  cat ;  it  might  be  that 
one  of  the  cows  had  broken  loose  and  was 
near  its  stall;  it  might  be  a  pig;  it  might  be 
a  hen;  it  might  be  merely  a  rat  running  in 
awkward  loping  bounds  across  its  pen.  They 
did  not  stop  to  wonder;  but  John  turned  and 
ran  toward  the  pen,  and  Ruth  followed  him, 


EVERED  203 

stumbling  through  the  soft  snow.  Darrin,  to 
whom  the  bull's  bellow  had  always  been  a 
frightful  sound,  was  startled  by  it,  would  have 
asked  a  question.  "When  he  saw  them  run 
round  the  house  he  followed  them. 

John  was  in  the  lead,  but  Euth  was  swift 
footed  and  was  at  his  shoulder  when  he 
reached  the  gate  of  the  pen.  The  walls  of 
the  inclosure  and  the  gate  itself  were  so  high 
that  they  could  not  look  over  the  top.  But 
just  beside  the  main  gate  there  was  a  smaller 
one,  like  a  door;  too  narrow  and  too  low  for 
the  bull  to  pass,  but  large  enough  for  a  man. 
John  fumbled  with  the  latch  of  this  gate; 
and  his  moment's  delay  gave  the  others  time 
to  come  up  with  him.  When  he  opened  the 
way  and  stepped  into  the  pen  Euth  and  Darrin 
were  at  his  shoulder.  Thus  that  which  was 
in  the  pen  broke  upon  them  all  three  at  once — 
a  picture  never  to  be  forgotten,  indelibly  im 
printed  on  their  minds. 

The  snow  that  had  fallen  in  the  inclosure 
was  trampled  here  and  there  by  the  tracks 
of  the  bull  and  by  the  tracks  of  the  man,  and 
in  one  spot  it  was  torn  and  tossed  and  crushed 
into  mud,  as  though  the  two  had  come  to 
gether  there  in  some  strange  matching  of 


204  EVERED 

strength.  At  this  spot  too  there  was  a  dark 
patch  upon  the  snow;  a  patch  that  looked 
almost  black.  Yet  Euth  knew  what  had  made 
this  patch,  and  clutched  at  her  throat  to  stifle 
her  scream;  and  John  knew,  and  Darrin  knew. 
And  the  two  men  were  sick  and  shaken. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  pen,  perhaps  a 
dozen  long  paces  from  where  they  stood. 
Evered  and  the  bull  faced  each  other.  Neither 
had  heard  their  coming,  neither  had  seen 
them.  They  were,  for  the  fraction  of  a  sec 
ond,  motionless.  The  great  bull's  head  was 
lowered ;  its  red  neck  was  streaked  with  darker 
red  where  a  long  gash  lay.  From  this  gash 
dripped  and  dripped  and  spurted  a  little 
stream,  a  dark  and  ugly  stream. 

The  man,  Evered,  stood  erect  and  still,  fa 
cing  the  bull.  They  saw  that  he  bore  the  knife 
in  his  left  hand;  and  they  saw  that  his  right 
arm  was  helpless,  hanging  in  a  curiously 
twisted  way,  bent  backward  below  the  elbow. 
The  sleeve  of  his  checked  shirt  was  stained 
there,  and  his  hand  was  red.  His  shoulder 
seemed  somehow  distorted.  Yet  he  was  erect 
and  strong,  and  his  face  was  steady  and  curi 
ously  peaceful,  and  he  made  no  move  to  escape 
or  to  flee. 


EVERED  205 

An  eternity  that  was  much  less  than  a  sec 
ond  passed  while  no  man  moved,  while  the 
bull  stood  still.  Then  its  short  legs  seemed 
to  bend  under  it;  its  great  body  hurtled  for 
ward.  The  vast  bulk  moved  quick  as  light. 
It  was  upon  the  man. 

They  saw  Evered  strike,  lightly,  with  his 
left  hand;  and  there  was  no  purpose  behind 
the  blow.  It  had  not  the  strength  to  drive  it 
home.  At  the  same  time  the  man  leaped  to 
one  side,  sliding  his  blade  down  the  bull's 
shoulder;  leaped  lightly  and  surely  to  one 
side.  The  bull  swept  almost  past  the  man,  the 
great  head  showed  beyond  him. 

Then  the  head  swung  back  and  struck 
Evered  in  the  side,  and  he  fell,  over  and  over, 
rolling  like  a  rabbit  taken  in  midleap  by  the 
gunner's  charge  of  shot.  And  the  red  bull 
turned  as  a  hound  might  have  turned,  with 
a  speed  that  was  unbelievable.  Its  head,  its 
f orequarters  rose ;  they  saw  its  feet  come  down 
with  a  curious  chopping  stroke — apparently 
not  so  desperately  hard — saw  its  feet  come 
down  once,  and  twice  upon  the  prostrate  man. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  all  this  had 
passed  quickly.  It  was  no  more  than  a  fifth 
of  a  second  that  John  Evered  stopped  within 


206  EVERED 

the  gate  of  the  pen.  Then  he  was  leaping 
toward  the  bull,  and  Euth  followed  him.  Dar- 
rin  crouched  in  the  gate,  and  his  face  was 
white  as  death.  He  cried,  "Come  back,  Euth!" 
And  even  as  she  ran  after  John  she  had  time 
to  look  back  toward  Darrin  and  see  him  cow 
ering  there. 

John  took  off  his  coat  as  he  ran,  took  it  off 
with  a  quick  whipping  motion.  He  swung  it 
back  behind  him,  round  his  head.  And  then 
as  the  bull's  body  rose  for  another  deadly 
downward  hoofstroke  John  struck  it  in  the 
flank  with  all  his  weight.  He  caught  the  beast 
faintly  off  balance,  so  that  the  bull  pivoted 
on  its  hind  feet,  away  from  the  fallen  man; 
and  before  the  great  creature  could  turn  John 
whipped  his  coat  into  its  face,  lashing  it  again 
and  again.  The  bull  shook  its  great  head, 
turning  away  from  the  blinding  blows;  and 
John  caught  the  coat  about  its  head  and  held 
it  there,  his  arms  fairly  round  the  bull's 
neck.  He  was  shouting,  shouting  into  its  very 
ear.  Euth  even  in  that  moment  heard  him. 
And  she  marked  that  his  tone  was  gentle, 
quieting,  kind.  There  was  no  harshness  in  it. 

She  needed  no  telling  what  to  do.  John 
had  swung  the  bull  away  from  Evered;  he 


EVERED  207 

had  the  creature  blinded.  She  bent  beside 
the  prostrate  man  and  tried  to  drag  him  to 
his  feet,  but  Evered  bent  weakly  in  the  middle. 
He  was  conscious,  he  looked  up  at  her,  his  face 
quite  calm  and  happy;  and  he  shook  his  head. 
He  said,  "Go." 

The  girl  caught  him  beneath  the  shoulders 
and  tried  to  drag  him  backward  through  the 
soft  snow  across  the  pen.  It  was  hard  work. 
John  still  blinding  the  bull,  still  calling  out 
to  the  beast,  was  working  it  away  from  her. 

She  could  not  call  on  him  for  help;  she 
turned  and  cried  to  Darrin,  "Help  me — carry 
him." 

Darrin  came  cautiously  into  the  pen  and 
approached  her  and  took  her  arm.  "Come 
away,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  blazed  at  him ;  and  she  cried  again, 
"Carry  him  out." 

He  said  huskily,  "Leave  him.  Leave  him 
here.  Come  away." 

She  had  never  released  Evered 's  shoulders, 
never  ceased  to  tug  at  him.  But  Darrin  took 
her  arm  now  as  though  to  pull  her  away;  and 
she  swung  toward  him  so  fiercely  that  he  fell 
back  from  her.  The  girl  began  abruptly  to 
cry;  half  with  anger  at  Darrin,  half  with  pity 


208  EVERED 

for  the  broken  man  in  her  arms.  And  she 
tugged  and  tugged,  sliding  the  limp  body  inch 
by  inch  toward  safety. 

Then  she  saw  John  beside  her.  He  had 
guided  the  bull,  half  forcing,  half  persuad 
ing,  to  the  entrance  into  the  stall;  he  had 
worked  the  creature  in,  prodding  it,  urging; 
and  shut  and  made  secure  the  door.  Now  he 
was  at  her  side.  He  knelt  with  her. 

"He's  terribly  hurt,''  she  said  through  her 
tears. 

John  nodded.    "I'll  take  him,"  he  told  her. 

So  he  gathered  Evered  into  his  arms,  gath 
ered  him  up  so  tenderly,  and  held  the  man 
against  his  breast,  and  Ruth  supported 
Evered 's  drooping  head  as  she  walked  beside 
John.  They  came  to  the  gate  and  it  was  too 
narrow  for  them  to  pass  through.  So  Kuth 
went  through  alone,  to  open  the  wider  gate 
from  the  outside. 

She  found  Darrin  there,  standing  Uncer 
tainly.  She  looked  at  him  as  she  might  have 
looked  at  a  stranger.  She  was  hardly  con 
scious  that  he  was  there  at  all.  When  he  saw 
what  she  meant  to  do  he  would  have  helped 
her.  She  turned  to  him  then,  and  she  seemed 
to  bring  her  thoughts  back  from  a  great  dis- 


EVERED  209 

tance;  she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and 
then  she  said,  "Go  away!" 

He  cried,  "Euth!    Please " 

She  repeated,  "I  want  you  to  go  away. 
Oh,"  she  cried,  "go  away!  Don't  ever  come 
here  again!" 

Darrin  moved  back  a  step,  and  she  swung 
the  gate  open  so  that  John  could  come  through, 
and  closed  it  behind  him,  and  walked  with  him 
to  the  kitchen  door,  supporting  Evered's  head. 
Darrin  hesitated,  then  followed  them  uncer 
tainly. 

When  they  came  to  the  door  Euth  opened 
it,  and  John — moving  sidewise  so  that  his 
burden  should  not  brush  against  the  door 
frame — went  into  the  kitchen,  and  across. 
Euth  passed  round  him  to  open  the  door  into 
Evered's  own  room;  and  John  went  through. 

When  he  reached  the  bedside  and  turned 
to  lay  Evered  there  he  missed  Euth.  He 
looked  toward  the  kitchen;  and  he  saw  her 
standing  in  the  outer  doorway.  Darrin  was 
on  the  steps  before  her.  John  heard  Darrin 
say  something  pleadingly.  Euth  stood  still 
for  a  moment.  Then  John  saw  her  slowly 
shut  the  door,  shutting  out  the  other  man. 


210  EVERED 

And  he  saw  her  turn  the  key  and  shoot  the 
bolt. 

She  came  toward  him,  running;  and  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

They  laid  Evered  on  his  own  bed,  the  bed 
he  and  Mary  Evered  had  shared.  Kuth  put 
the  pillow  under  his  head;  and  because  it  was 
cold  in  the  room  she  would  have  drawn  a 
blanket  across  him.  John  shook  his  head.  He 
was  loosening  the  other's  garments,  making 
swift  examination  of  his  father's  hurts,  press 
ing  and  probing  firmly  here  and  there. 

Evered  had  drifted  out  of  consciousness 
on  the  way  to  the  house;  but  his  eyes  opened 
now  and  there  was  sweat  on  his  forehead. 
He  looked  up  at  them  steadily  and  soberly 
enough. 

"You  hurt  me,  John,"  he  said. 

Euth  whispered,  "I'll  telephone  the  doctor." 

Evered  turned  his  head  a  little  on  the  pil 
low,  and  looked  toward  her.  "No,"  he  said, 
"no  need." 

"Oh,  there  must  be!"  she  cried.  "There 
must  be!  He  can " 

Evered  interrupted  her.  "Don't  go,  Euthie. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  was  crying;  she  came  slowly  back  to 


EVERED  211 

the  bedside.  The  sun  was  ready  to  dip  behind 
the  Mils.  Its  last  rays  coming  through  the 
window  fell  across  her  face.  She  was  some 
how  glorified.  She  put  her  hand  on  Evered's 
head,  and  he — the  native  strength  still  alive 
within  him — reached  up  and  caught  it  in  his 
and  held  it  firmly  thereafter  for  a  space. 

"You're  crying,"  he  said. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  told  him. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I'm  so  sorry  for  you." 

A  slow  wave  of  happiness  crept  into  his 
eyes.  "You're  a  good  girl,  Euthie.  You 
mustn't  cry  for  me." 

She  brushed  her  sleeve  across  her  eyes. 
"Why  did  you  do  it?"  she  asked  almost 
fiercely.  "Why  did  you  let  him  get  at  you?" 

"You've  been  hating  me,  Euthie,"  he  told 
her  gently.  "Why  do  you  cry  for  me?" 

"Oh,"  she  told  him,  "  I  don't  hate  you  now. 
I  don't  hate  you  now." 

He  said  weakly,  "You've  reason  to  hate 


me." 


"No,  no!"  she  said.  "Don't  be  unhappy. 
You  never  meant — you  loved  Mary." 

"Aye,"  he  agreed,  "I  loved  Mary.  I  loved 
Mary,  and  John  loves  you." 


212  EVERED 

She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
John  standing  beside  her;  but  she  did  not 
look  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  all  for  Evered. 

" Please/'  she  said.  "Best.  Let  me  get 
the  doctor." 

His  head  moved  slowly  in  negation.  "Some 
thing  to  tell  you,  Kuth,  first — before  the  doc 
tor  comes." 

She  looked  toward  John  then,  for  decision 
or  for  reassurance.  His  eyes  answered  her; 
they  bade  her  listen;  they  told  her  there  was 
no  work  for  the  doctor  here.  So  she  turned 
back  to  Evered  again.  He  was  speaking 
slowly;  she  caught  his  words  bending  above 
him. 

It  was  thus  that  the  man  told  the  story 
at  last,  without  heat  or  passion,  neither  spar 
ing  himself  nor  condemning  himself,  but  as 
though  he  spoke  of  another  man.  And  he 
spoke  of  little  things  that  he  had  not  been 
conscious  of  noticing  at  the  time — how  when 
he  took  down  his  revolver  to  go  after  the  bull 
the  cats  were  frightened  and  ran  from  him; 
how  as  he  passed  through  the  barnyard  the 
horse  whinnied  from  its  stall;  how  he  was 
near  stumbling  over  a  ground  sparrow's  nest 
in  the  open  land  above  the  woodlot;  how  a 


EVERED  213 

red  squirrel  mocked  at  him  from  a  hemlock 
as  he  went  on  his  way.  It  was  as  though  he 
lived  the  day  over  while  they  listened.  He 
told  how  he  had  come  out  above  the  spring; 
how  he  saw  Mary  and  Dane  Semler  there. 

"I  believed  she  loved  him,"  he  said. 

And  Euth  cried,  "Oh,  she  never  loved  any 
one  but  you."  She  was  not  condemning,  she 
was  reassuring  him;  and  he  understood,  his 
hand  tightening  on  hers. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "And  my  unbelief  was 
my  great  wrong  to  Mary;  worse  than  the 
other." 

He  went  on  steadily  enough.  "There  was 
time,"  he  told  her.  "I  could  have  turned 
him,  stopped  him,  shot  him.  But  I  hated  her ; 
I  let  the  bull  come  on." 

The  girl  scarce  heard  him.  His  words 
meant  little  to  her;  her  sympathy  for  him  was 
so  profound  that  her  only  concern  was  to 
ease  the  man  and  make  him  happier. 

She  cried,  "Don't,  don't  torment  yourself! 
Please,  I  understand." 

"I  killed  her,"  he  said. 

And  as  one  would  soothe  a  child,  while 
the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  she  bade  him 
never  mind. 


214  EVERED 

" There,  there.    Never  mind,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  killed  her,  but  I  loved  her,"  he  went 
on  implacably. 

And  he  told  them  something  of  his  sorrow 
afterward,  and  told  them  how  he  had  stifled 
his  remorse  by  telling  himself  that  Mary  was 
false;  how  he  had  kept  his  soul  alive  with 
that  poor  unction.  He  was  weakening  fast; 
the  terrific  battering  which  he  had  endured 
was  having  its  effect  upon  even  his  great 
strength;  but  his  voice  went  steadily  on. 

He  came  to  Darrin,  came  to  that  scene  with 
Darrin  the  night  before,  by  the  spring;  and 
so  told  how  Darrin  had  proved  to  him  that 
Mary  was — Mary.  And  at  last,  as  though 
they  must  understand,  he  added,  "So  then  I 
knew." 

They  did  not  ask  what  he  knew;  these  two 
did  understand.  They  knew  the  man  as  no 
others  would  ever  know  him — knew  his  heart, 
knew  his  unhappiness.  There  was  no  need 
of  his  telling  them  how  he  had  passed  the 
night,  and  then  the  day.  He  did  not  try. 

Kuth  was  comforting  him;  and  he  watched 
her  with  a  strange  and  wistful  light  in  his 
eyes. 


EVERED  215 

"You've  hated  me,  Buthie,"  he  reminded 
her.  "Do  you  hate  me  now?" 

There  was  no  hate  in  her,  nothing  but  a 
flooding  sympathy  and  sorrow  for  the  broken 
man.  She  cried,  "No,  no!" 

"You're  forgiving " 

"Yes.     Please — please  know." 

"Then  Mary  will,"  he  murmured  half  to 
himself. 

Euth  nodded,  and  told  him,  "Yes,  yes;  she 
will.  Please,  never  fear." 

For  a  little  while  he  was  silent,  while  she 
spoke  to  him  hungrily  and  tenderly,  as  a 
mother  might  have  spoken;  and  her  arms 
round  him  seemed  to  feel  the  man  slipping 
away.  She  was  weeping  terribly;  and  he  put 
up  one  hand  and  brushed  her  eyes. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  bade  her.  "It's  all  right, 
don't  cry." 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  want  to  help  it. 
Oh,  if  there  was  only  anything  I  could  do." 

He  smiled  faintly;  and  his  words  were  so 
husky  she  could  scarcely  hear. 

"Go  to  John,"  he  said. 

She  held  him  closer.    "Please " 

"Please  go  to  John,"  he  urged  again. 

She  still  held  him,  but  her  arms  relaxed  a 


216  EVERED 

little.  She  looked  up  at  John,  and  saw  the 
young  man  standing  there  beside  her.  And 
a  picture  came  back  to  her — the  picture  of 
John  throwing  himself  against  the  red  bull's 
flank,  blinding  it,  urging  it  away.  His  voice 
had  been  so  gentle,  and  sure,  and  strong.  She 
herself  in  that  moment  had  burned  with  hate 
of  the  bull.  Yet  there  had  been  no  hate  in 
John,  nothing  but  gentleness  and  strength. 

She  had  coupled  him  with  Evered  in  her 
thoughts  for  so  long  that  there  was  a  strange 
illumination  in  her  memories  now;  she  saw 
John  as  though  she  had  never  seen  him  before ; 
and  almost  without  knowing  it  she  rose  and 
stood  before  him. 

John  made  no  move  to  take  her;  but  she 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  drew  his 
head  down.  Only  then  did  his  arms  go  about 
her  and  hold  her  close.  There  was  infinite 
comfort  in  them.  He  bent  and  kissed  her. 
And  strangely  she  thought  of  Darrin.  There 
had  been  something  hard  and  cruel  in  his  em 
brace,  there  had  been  loneliness  in  his  arms. 
There  was  only  gentleness  in  John's;  and  she 
was  not  lonely  here.  She  looked  up,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

"Oh,  John,  John!"  she  whispered. 


EVERED  217 

As  they  kissed  so  closely,  the  warm  light 
from  the  west  came  through  the  window  and 
enfolded  them.  And  Evered,  upon  the  bed, 
wearily  turned  his  head  till  he  could  see 
them,  watch  them.  While  he  watched,  his 
eyes  lighted  with  a  slow  contentment.  And 
after  a  little  a  smile  crept  across  his  face, 
such  a  smile  as  comes  only  with  supreme 
happiness  and  peace.  A  kindly,  loving  smile. 

He  was  still  smiling  when  they  turned 
toward  him  again;  but  they  understood  at 
once  that  Evered  himself  had  gone  away. 


THE    END. 


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QCT 


JAN 


Book  Slip-30m-8,'54(6210s4)458 


6691 

Williams,  D.A. 
Evered. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


